Becky And Spike Forever
by Fojiao2
Summary: Spike authors a successful series called "Becky the Vampire Slayer"--but it might cost him his chances with Buffy! CHAPTER 4 UP AT LONG LAST!
1. Deals with Demons

TITLE: BECKY AND SPIKE FOREVER   
AUTHOR: Kevin A. Poston (Fojiao2)   
DISCLAIMER: I own none of the characters involved in this story and am making no profit; they belong only to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy   
SPOILERS: Up through late Season Six   
FEEDBACK: Please! This unwothy one begs for validation!   
SUMMARY: Spike becomes a published writer, starting a "Becky The Vampire Slayer" series that reveals his feelings about all the Scoobs . . . especially Buffy. 

PART ONE: Deals with Demons 

Billy Gere had been a publishing agent for twenty years not because he was good or professional or even paid off his writers well. He was still around because he took risks. He had zigged and zagged through a career that was always one deal away from bankruptcy, and his impressive office in L.A. told of none of the hard times that had gotten him to where he was. That's why he had stayed so late, working on a new contract long after the maintenance staff had swept through his office and moved on to the others. That's why he was there when the biggest risk of his life stepped through the door. 

The uninvited guest was a young-looking man with spikey peroxide-blond, black and leathery clothing, and a permanent sneer. There was no knocking--Gere simply looked up one moment, looked back to his desk, and then looked up again to behold the young man standing in his office. 

"Um . . . " Gere began, "can I help you?" 

"Just maybe. You're the publishing agent, right? The one who handled Anton Spence?" 

That caused a sour feeling in Gere. Anton Spence had been one of those fortunate risks who had paid off. Gere had helped him through three mediocre novels before Spence's stories of a ghostbusting houngan in New Orleans became popular among the Fantasy Horror audience. When money and fame came Spence's way, he suddenly had no time for his long-suffering agent and had to find someone new to meet his "exclusive needs." 

"Mr. Spence has changed representation," Gere answered. 

"Yeah, but you handled him in the beginning. And that's what I need. I have a book--the first of a series--that would fit Spence's audience. I wanted to see if you're interested." 

"I don't accept books off the street, Mr.--?" 

In answer, the fellow stepped forward and laid a hand on the edge of Gere's desk. Exerting almost no effort, and smiling at the agent the whole time, he snapped the hard plastic and formica like it was cardboard. He then held up the corner in his hand, showing the layers of material that had been broken, and tossed it aside. 

"I think you'll read this one. And you can call me Spike." 

Gere stared in complete wonder. "Do-- do you have it with you?" 

"Of course," Spike answered, pulling a box from his duster. Gere opened it; it held a thick sheaf of paper, the title page of which read "BECKY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER Series. Book One: Welcome to the Hellpit. A Novel by William T. Bloody." Gere flipped to the last page and saw that it was 350 pages of neatly-typed double-spaced text. 

"Nice typing," Gere commented. 

"When I learned to write, we didn't have carbon paper or white-out. You got it right the first time and did the editing in your head before you put it on paper." 

"So this is just typed? You don't have it on disk?" 

"I only got an extension cord into my place, and that's for me TV and fridge. I used an old manual typewriter I found at the Goodwill and burned through every ribbon I had making that." 

"Well, if there's no digital copy there's not much--" 

"Listen," Spike said, his north London accent particularly harsh and loud. Gere stared, in fear for his life. "I know you probably get tons of wankers coming in here all the time with their sob stories about how they want to be published. They all got their reasons, and I got mine: I want to make some cash. A friend of mine's just . . . returned, and I need to convince her that I can make a living without begging money. Since I had a lot of time to . . . think over the summer, I went back to my first trade--writing. I'm not trying to be some artist here, mate, and I don't expect to sell like Stephen King. But I wrote something that I think the reading public will like, something that can be turned into a series. That's the name of the game these days, right?" He smiled for the first time since his little display of strength, a smirk with a world of menace behind it. "It's got plenty of sex and violence, so I know it'll attract someone. Now, you're gonna read it. And if you like it, you can get one of your little honeys in this office to make a 'digital copy' and shop it around. If you don't like it, if you don't think it'll sell, then you can bloody tell me. I'll be back in a week." 

Spike then turned around and headed for the door. Gere squeaked out, "Will you kill me if it's no good?" 

Spike turned, looking serious again. "Don't think so, mate. I just want to know if it's publishable. Mind you, that's my only copy, so don't go reading it while you're at dinner and staining those pages. LOSE any of the pages and I will kill you--I'll paint this office in your blood and brains. And don't try running--if you're not here when I come back I'll hunt you down, Billy. And what I do then won't be pretty at all." With that, he was gone. 

Gere sat in the empty office and contemplated how the manuscript before him would mark a change in his life, whatever happened. Realizing that there was no way he would get any sleep, he began to read page one. "In every generation there is a Chosen One, a Slayer, whose responsibility it is to bring down the vampires and demons that plague this world," he read out loud. "All of them are girls. All are young when they begin, usually about 15. And only the best live into their 20's. The very best the world had ever seen--Becky Winters--had just moved to Sunnyvale." 

A week later Spike returned to Billy Gere's office at the exact same time of evening. But this time he was greeted by an office lit up and busy, with a hard-working secretary on the other side of the glass at the office's front. Spike opened the door hesitantly, and the secretary looked up with a smile. "Mr. Bloody! We've been expecting you!" She buzzed her boss, and Gere stepped into the reception area with a grin and a laugh. 

"William! My boy!" he crowed. He grabbed Spike's shoulders with true affection. "Thank you so much for coming to me! I read your book that night you came here, and we had it transcribed into Word files the next day. It's fantastic! So much potential for a new series! We already have three publishers bidding for it, and I can promise you a $400,000 advance on the next two books in the series." 

Spike was bowled over. "I-- I never dreamed I'd get this reception," he said, truthfully. 

"Well, it's a dream come true, Spike. Look, the first thing we have to talk about is contracts. I took your book on with no guarantees to either of us, so I think it's best we get some things in writing straight away. Please, come into my office." Gere escorted Spike in and they began to haggle over one of Gere's standard contracts. After an hour of negotiations they had something that satisfied both parties, though Spike was secretly agog at the amount of money that would be coming his way. The only cash he'd had in his old days was booty he and Angelus would rob from graves or people they'd killed. Since living in Sunnydale and getting his chip installed in his head, he'd survived mostly through various petty criminal activities--that and the money he could con from the Slayer and the Scoobs. Now it looked like he could move out of his crypt. 

"So, it just remains for us to sign them," said Gere. "You sure you don't want your lawyer to look this over?" 

Spike grinned. "I don't think that'll be necessary, Billy. I mean, we both know what I'll do to you if I become dissatisfied, don't we?" Gere's sudden fear and nervousness was like ice cream to Spike. Few people feared him like this back in Sunnydale; he'd have to visit L.A. more often. 

"You, uh, have all the necessary documentation?" 

"Never leave home without it," Spike said, pulling out a wallet. He set down a birth certificate, a Social Security card, and a California driver's license, all in the name of "William Thackeray Bloody." "Sorry I don't have a credit card," he continued, "but I've been without a permanent address for a while." 

"So that's your real name?" Gere asked, not really believing it. 

"Sure," Spike said. "They cost me a pretty penny, too, I can tell you. But when I came to America I knew I had to get some respectable ID or I'd end up as a pile of dust in some county lockup." 

"So they're fake." 

"Of course!" 

Gere took a long, slow breath. "I'm sorry, William, but I can't sign a contract with a false name on it." 

"Billy," Spike chuckled, leaning forward and putting a friendly hand on the agent's shoulder, "where'd all that good feeling go? Are you forgetting the kind of money we're talking about? And how much we're going to make once I crank out a few more of these books? I'm not like Spence, Billy--I reward initiative, and I'll sign any long-term paperwork you want to print up right now. Decades of publishing, mate, and a steady income for both of us. What's wrong with that?" 

"What's wrong is that I have no idea who you really are, and we're going to NEED to know that if we're going to promote your books." 

"This identity has a paper trail--only the best for me and mine, y'know. Let the researchers do what they will, they'll never find a crack in my story." 

"But I don't know WHO you are! You could be some murderer on the run, for all I know." 

Spike looked at him grimly. "If only it were that simple," he said. "Listen, Billy, why don't you and I have a little contest? Right here, right now. We'll see who can hold his breath longer. The winner gets to be trusted implicitly." 

"What, are you crazy? I'm not holding my breath." 

"Then I will. Just keep the time on your watch. I think you'll like the show." Spike then drew in a slight breath and let it out. And didn't draw in another. 

After two minutes of silence, Gere started to pay attention to his watch. Spike sat across from him, still looking cheerful, spending the time looking around the office or looking out the window at the L.A. night. At four minutes Gere was staring at Spike, noting that the man wasn't blinking either. At six minutes Gere was truly frightened. Spike didn't appear in the least distressed. At eight minutes, Gere finally said, "Stop it. Just stop it." 

Spike smirked. "Stop what?" he said. "I ain't holding my breath, Billy. I have to think about breathing, and that's when I start." 

"What-- what are you?" 

Spike motioned toward the manuscript on Gere's desk. "What the hell have you been reading about, Billy? Vampires and demons. The stuff of profitable sales." 

Gere then sat for a few more minutes in silence. It was much easier to believe that Spike considered himself a vampire, and had gone to certain extremes to make himself appear that way, than it was to believe that such monsters actually existed. And so it was much easier for Gere to convince himself of that. Spike might be mentally unbalanced . . . but he wasn't the only one of Gere's clients to be that way. He wasn't even the first of Gere's writers to threaten his life. 

"Okay," Gere said. "As long as I know the situation." He leaned forward and signed the contract. Spike tuned the contract around, signed and initialed in the appropriate places (making very sure that Gere got the p.o. box where Spike's money could be delivered), and then the man and the vampire shook hands. They were both all smiles again as Gere escorted Spike back out to the reception area. The secretary was waiting there, holding a gift-wrapped box in her hands. 

"Oh, I almost forgot!" Gere said, taking the gift and handing it to Spike. "Here, we got you something. Deducted it from your first royalties, rather. Believe me, you'll like it." 

Spike took the present and solemnly opened it. Inside was a new laptop and a pack of ZIP disks. The vampire looked up in surprise. 

"No more typing on that beat-up typewriter," Gere said. "From now on you can deliver your work via those disks. You won't even have to leave Sunnydale." 

"It's very thoughtful," Spike said, grinning broadly, his gaze dancing across the screen and keyboard. 

"You know how to use it?" 

"Oh, I'm quite handy on 'em. I just never owned my own before." 

"Well, I think you might want to unplug the TV to give this baby a run for her money. You have plenty more books to write. Oh, by the way, can you tell us what the next one'll be about?" 

"Yep. Book Two will be 'The Master Will Rise.' Book Three'll be 'A New Enemy in Town.' And Book Four has to be 'Diablo and Acathla.' After that it's negotiable. You'll love 'em, really." He put his package under his arm, shook hands with the two humans, and stepped back out into the night. 

TO BE CONTINUED   
I hope to get Chapter 2 up by the weekend. After that, don't expect the updates as quickly. Sorry, I'm not a college student, I have a job! 


	2. The Sunnydale Arms

TITLE: BECKY AND SPIKE FOREVER (Part 2)   
AUTHOR: Kevin A. Poston (Fojiao2)   
DISCLAIMER: I own none of the characters used in this story and profit by them not at all. They are the sole property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and anyone else Joss okays.   
FEEDBACK: Whatever you can spare. Your words (good or bad) are my sole refuge from ego-crushing Reality.   
SUMMARY: Spike authors a successful series of "Becky The Vampire Slayer" books--but it just may cost him his chances with Buffy! Spoilers through "Older and Far Away" (Season Six). "As You Were" never happened. (Oh, if only that were true!) 

PART TWO: The Sunnydale Arms 

The cemetery was boring. Buffy had found only one bloodsucker that night, and he'd almost leaped onto her stake. No challenge. She wandered over toward Spike's crypt, her heart racing at the thought of seeing him. They were on the outs at the moment, one of the low points of their on-off lust-filled relationship. Since she'd been resurrected and they'd started to be more honest about their feelings for each other--more on her part than his--they'd also been much more honest about their irritations and every reason they should NOT be together. So at various times one or the other decided to "stay away" until they just couldn't keep their hands off each other. The last time it had been her fault, so she now had to go to his crypt to make amends. It had been five days since they'd been together, and she wore a wicked smile as she neared the front door to his crypt. She was surprised to see a note taped to the door, a note titled: SLAYER. 

Dammit, this is too much, she thought. He was breaking the rules. Anyone could have found this note! And anyone would then know that they were intimate enough to leave notes for each other! Buffy was definitely not ready for that. When she found him she just might not make up after all. Let's see how he likes TEN days without me, she thought. Of course, that meant ten days without him also--a grim prospect. Before her thinking went into too much of a downward spiral, she told herself to actually read the note. 

It was simple: "SLAYER--Sorry, I've moved. Look for me at The Sunnydale Arms under the name William Bloody. Hope you'll come soon. S." 

She didn't believe it. Buffy had to go into his crypt and see how everything had been cleared out above and below before she left the cemetery. The Sunnydale Arms was a large downtown hotel, quite close to The Magic Box, actually. If he really had moved then it could be a convenient location. 

It wasn't until she stepped into the hotel's lobby that she realized that Spike had laid another little trap for her. He hadn't left his room number in the note: she would have to go to the main desk and ask for his room. It was a way of forcing her to admit that she wanted to see him and actually telling another person that. Subtle and devious--the hallmarks of a Spike plan. Buffy almost turned away, and if it had been fewer than five days apart from him she might have. But it had been five days. 

She stepped up to the central desk and said, "William Bloody's room, please." 

The young woman behind the counter, wearing a nametag that said JUDY, looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "Of course. Would you be Buffy Summers?" 

Buffy looked at her with wide eyes. "Um. Yes." 

"Could I see some ID?" Judy asked. 

What the hell? It was another challenge from Spike. Oh, he'd pay, and in a way more imaginative than what he was putting her through at the moment. Her jaw set in hostility, she pulled a rarely-used driver's license from her jeans pocket and set it quietly on the countertop. The woman looked the ID over, never losing her professional smile, and then retrieved a key card from the desk before her. She passed it and the ID across the counter to Buffy, saying, "Here you are. It's room 425--you might want to mark that down, because it's not on the key card itself." 

Buffy was looking the card over. "What's this?" 

"Your key." 

"MY key?" 

"Of course. Mr. Bloody insisted that you get your own key as soon as you came in. But he wouldn't say when that would be, so we've been waiting two days for you." Her smile increased its wattage. "It's good to see you, Ms. Summers. We hope you enjoy your stay at The Sunnydale Arms." 

Buffy left the main desk still looking at the card in wonder. A key to his room. Again, a classic Spike maneuver. Make her jump through hoops, then do something as sweet as giving her the key to his home. Until she got the key she hadn't considered that, for the first time since she'd known him, Spike would have a room that she couldn't immediately access. She would have had to knock like anyone else. He knew that already and made sure that she was the only other person with a key. The memory of when she had blocked him out of her own house was strong in her as she took an elevator to the fourth floor. It had been the night he first said he loved her. 

Room 425 was on the corner. Thus Buffy had to look carefully down two corridors before she was sure that no one was seeing her slip the key card through the door lock and open it. "Spike?" she called as she stepped in. 

"Slayer?" she heard. "I'll be right out." He was speaking from the bathroom, just beyond the closet to her right as she entered. Buffy took the opportunity to look around the room. A gray carpet and eggshell walls, antiseptic but comfortable. To her immediate left was a nice couch with a coffeetable to match. A new laptop sat on the coffeetable, its screen glowing merrily. The back left of the room had a pair of comfortable chairs, both facing the windows that looked down on the street below. She stepped forward, taking a peek at the half-open door of the bathroom to see if she might get a glimpse of Spike, but steam obscured any view within. Around the corner to the right was the bed, a queen size with a nice comforter in a Navajo pattern. To its right was a small table with a digital clock and a reading lamp. A large bookcase dominated the wall to the bed's left, stuffed with paperbacks and with hardbacks stacked on the top. To the left of the bookcase was a mini-fridge where he probably kept his blood, and to the left of that a desk where the TV was located. God knows Spike couldn't get along without his daily dose of Passions. And to its left was a new stereo and CD player, with a stack of CDs beside it. She stepped toward the desk, curious about his choice of music, though she was pretty sure what she'd find. 

"Slayer?" she heard behind her, and spun around to see Spike, shirtless and barefoot, in a pair of black jeans. He was grinning widely. Her stomach took a quick dip within her. She hated seeing him like this when they were on the outs, because she knew every inch of that scrumptious torso through her lips alone. And her hands. And her own chest, sliding up and down his. Standing there, confronting him for the first time in almost a week, her nipples crinkled into hardness despite herself. 

Spike seemed to notice none of this, lost in the moment of introducing her to his home. "Well?" he said, holding his arms out as if to encompass the entire room. "Isn't it nice? No dust here, pet, no skulls or chains. And no bad memories, I hope--just a place to create new ones." 

"So it's yours?" 

"Yeah--all permanent-like. Paid up for months." 

"And this?" she asked, holding up the key card. 

"Ah." His face froze. Just like that she could rob him of his excitement by thrusting reality in his face. Never mind that he did the same thing to her almost constantly--it was still a momentary sting. He sat on the bed, looking up at her stoic face. "Well, I have to admit--I would sometime like this to be OURS, not just mine. But I'm not pushing, I'm just giving you the option." He then stood up, pointing. "But don't rake me over the coals for this, Slayer. If I'd made you knock to get in you'd be asking me where's your key by now." 

Buffy's face relented, and she sat on the bed, testing its comfort. "You're probably right," she said. "Y'know, this is much better than the bed in your crypt." 

Spike stretched out beside her on the bed, hoping she'd join him in that reclining position. "Better in every way, luv. No more complaints about not changing the sheets enough--there're new ones every morning. And a nice hot shower, which presents lots of possibilities." 

Buffy returned a bright smile to his knowing leer. "Yeah, I can see a lot of potential here. But how'd you do it? Where'd you get the money for this?" 

In answer he stood once more and looked around the room in speculation. "You'll have to forgive the mess, but I've been doing some shopping," he said. "Still, there's something definitely lacking here: something for the walls. Some paintings or photos. I was thinking of letting you choose, 'cause you have that classic Summers touch when it comes to art. But I have one thing of mine I wanted to hang first." He then picked up a small framed something from the TV's top and hopped back onto the bed with it. 

"How long have you been preparing that speech?" Buffy asked through a grin. 

"Two days," he said. "But I still mean it. Look." 

She read the framed paper rectangle, then stared, her mouth hanging open. "Spike! This is--!" 

"Just a photocopy, really," he said. "But it's my first check, the initial payment by the publisher. I thought I should keep it on the wall." 

"This-- this is $80,000!" 

"Yeah. The next royalty checks won't be nearly so impressive, I know, but they'll be steady. And then there's the rest of the series. And movie rights! Oh, that'll be lovely." 

"How--" Then what Spike had said replayed in her mind. "You're published?" 

"Stay with the program, Buffy--yes! I am a published writer, after only 130 years of practice." 

"What have you written?" 

"Oh, it's nothing. A fiction series, really easy stuff. Some of that fantasy/horror crap that you've said you never read." 

"What, like Anton Spence?" 

Spike froze for a moment. "You've, ah-- you've read Anton Spence?" 

"No!" Buffy said, wrinkling her nose. "All that killing of vampires and ghouls and werewolves? I get more than enough of that in my real life. But Dawn reads 'em." 

"She does?" 

"Oh, yeah, a lot of the girls her age like that Laurell Hamilton, Anton Spence kinda stuff. I suppose now they're going to be reading William Bloody. What are they, the kinds of things you used to tell her? Stories about the people you've killed?" 

"Nah, Slayer, it's more contemporary. What do kids these days care about murder in the years before they were born? It's just fantasy action/adventure, nothing special. Tons of other series out there just like it." 

"But it's profitable?" 

"I won't be buying a new Mercedes anytime soon, but yeah, I have enough to live on comfortably. And you know how trendy these things are--I'm gonna get what cash I can and sit on it for a while. But I can definitely afford to upgrade my lifestyle." 

"I'll say." Buffy lay back on the bed, spreading her arms out on the comforter. "You never stop surprising me, Spike." 

"And that's a good thing, right?" he said, his face just inches from her own, his hand already working at her belt buckle. 

"Hey! Hey!" She wriggled out of Spike's grasp and stood up, stepping over to the windows. "Why are you always in such a hurry? We haven't even--" 

"I'm not the one who has to apologize this time, Slayer," Spike said, still lying on the bed, eyes closed as he looked for patience. "Remember? We were talking about terms of endearment. And you said, 'you can't be a sweetheart when your heart doesn't even beat.'" 

Buffy stared at him from across the room. "I was right," she said, and immediately cursed herself internally. Stupid pride! 

Spike sat up on the bed, meeting her stare with one of fury. "Well then we have nothing to talk about. You're obviously wasting your precious time with me! I'm just a useless, undead thing, right? Too unworthy to even talk to like a man!" 

Buffy stepped over to the bed and kneeled, taking his hands in her own. "No, it's not like that. I just-- Saying things like that doesn't feel like us, y'know? We fight, we argue, we push each other to the edge. What we have is too hard and passionate for those words." 

"Only because you want it to be," he said, his sorrow clear in his voice as he brushed fingers through her hair. "I'm not asking you to say you love me--God KNOWS you've told me enough that you don't. But we have to talk to each other outside of the sheets a lot more, pet. It's not like I get to show off my best girl to my friends, or hear your friends tell me what a great pair we make. I'm still begging for scraps here, luv, and to give me a pet name would show that we're more than just partners in bed, that we can have conversations and treat each other like equals. That quiet times--like this, right now--don't have to be so rare between us. Is that really too much to ask?" 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said, kissing the hand that was wrapped around hers. She looked up into his eyes. "You really are my sweetheart, aren't you?" 

Her voice, her eyes, her warmth so near him--how could his undead heart not melt at the sight of her? "I am your lover, your man, your dirty little secret," he said. "And yes, I am your sweetheart." And your kept man, Spike thought to himself. Dru could take me or leave me, but she never tried to make me a doll that she kept on a shelf. God, I am so Slayer-whipped. 

She sat next to him on the bed, but things were still a little awkward. Neither of them wanted to make the first move that would lead to something more naked, but both wanted it. Finally, Spike had an idea. "I know," he said. "How about a storytime?" 

Buffy groaned and rolled her eyes. "God! How did this little tradition start again?" 

Spike cleared his throat. "Last summer, when you-- when the Scoobies and I-- well, when you weren't around." He side-stepped the whole issue of her death, like usual, rather than let that pain catch up to him again. "We spent a lot of time during patrol with nothing to do, so the others started to fill me in on stories that I'd never heard. Giles was the best, of course." He couldn't help but smile at the thought. "Lord, that man could talk, but he had a real grasp for narrative. Came from writing his Watcher's journal, I suppose. All those tales about Faith that I'd never known, and the Inca mummy girl, and The Harvest. Just amazing the things that go on at the Hellmouth." 

"Yeah, it's an E-ticket ride," Buffy muttered. "Okay, so did you have a question?" 

"Well, I was wondering about something only you could tell," he said. "You don't have to, of course, but . . ." Buffy just twirled her index finger in a "get-on-with-it" motion. "I was wondering just what happened that summer after you defeated Acathla. I know you went to L.A., but the Scoobies weren't too specific about what you did there." 

Buffy suddenly noticed the TV remote and snatched it off the bedside table. "Wow, do you have cable? 'Cause Sealab 2021's on and--" 

"Slayer," Spike said, taking the remote from her hand. "If you don't want to tell me, that's okay. I just-- just wanted to know more about your life. To give me a clearer picture of you. This was something even Angelus couldn't tell me." 

Buffy couldn't meet his eyes. "I've never really told anyone. Except Mom. And Dawn. I couldn't even tell Giles, 'cause o' what he'd think of me." 

Spike coughed a laugh. "I'm an evil old thing, luv--not much I can look down on." 

She looked up at him quickly to see if he was mocking her, but his eyes held nothing but sympathy. "Hold me," she said, and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She wrapped her arms around his torso and spoke directly into his chest as she described her walk home on the morning she sent her lover to Hell. Spike remembered that morning, rushing Dru into his DeSoto, heading South in the early light, knowing that the Slayer was probably already dead at Angelus' hand but hoping that she'd stopped Acathla before it happened. And hoping more, but not willing to admit it: hoping that the strong, smart Slayer whose mother he had spoken to that evening, whose sister had looked at him with fear and fascination from the top of the stairs, would be able to go back to her family. The thought of that house with a hole in its family structure, of a world with an absence where there had been a brave girl who'd sacrifice herself for its sake, gave him an unexpected punch in the gut. He hadn't known the source of that pain, not yet, and certainly had no thought that three years later he'd be cast directly into that personal hell and have to live in a world without her. 

Buffy went on, telling about her life as a waitress named Anne, about floating through the city doing her best to keep her head down and not be noticed. And the best way to do that, of course, was not to notice anything around her. It took someone else, one of Spike's would-be victims who had gotten away, to bring her out of her shell. And, naturally, a crisis too big for her to ignore. She found on this one day exactly why she was the Slayer, why the world needed a Slayer: because she'd been surrounded by petty evils all summer--by groping hands and leering idiots, by muggers and burglars, by drug dealers and crooked cops--but they were things that could be defeated by human strength alone. The world, however, contained evils that towered over these things, evils that could only be brought down by a Slayer. Even off the Hellmouth there was a crying need for her strength, her resolve, her skill. To do anything less than use her Chosen gifts would be to betray everything she was inside. She had run away from the pain of Angel's murder specifically to protect that flame of hope within her, harboring her last remaining dream before Sunnydale and her life as the Slayer snuffed it. She'd be damned if she'd let a workhouse full of demons take it from her. 

"--So I got the first group out," she finished. "And before we could even turn around and think about rescuing anyone else the whole time-portal thing just disappeared and walled itself up. Nothing more we could do." Buffy then stayed silent. 

"So you came back to Sunnydale," Spike prompted. 

"Yeah," she said, her voice listless. It had obviously been a long time since she let herself remember that time of her life. "I figured I could fight my demons here as well as I could anywhere else. Around here they're just a bit more literal." 

"And I'll bet," Spike said, "that you felt more guilty about those you left behind in that Hell than victorious over those you saved." 

She pulled back and looked into his face. "How'd you know?" 

"Because I know you," he answered. "You're harder on yourself than anyone I've ever seen, than any Slayer I've known! You deserve a break, Buffy! You've saved THE WORLD, what, four or five times?" 

"Six," Buffy said quietly. "Giles counted." 

Spike grinned and pulled himself out of her arms so he could take her face in his hands. "My point is, luv, that you're a goddess. You're a golden warrior of light, the best and bravest there's ever been. And like any larger-than-life figure, you're a champion at tying yourself into knots for no reason. It's not healthy, and it's not pleasant to watch for those who love you. The world owes you a reward, but since it seems to be taking its own sweet time delivering, you have to find ways to reward yourself. And the best method I can think of is to NOT cause yourself more pain than is necessary." He hated having to lecture her, but sometimes he had to channel Giles in order to get anything through his Slayer's head. 

"You're my reward," she said quietly. And Spike remembered why he put up with beatings and cutting insults and anything Xander bloody said and being kept in a closet with her other toys or talked to like Mr. Gordo. For moments like this, when his dreams of her sweetness actually came true, when he was able to bask in the warmth of her true affection. Never mind that he was living the life of Riley (Ha-ha, very droll) and just like that bloody dull soldier boy was taking whatever he could get from her without complaint. That living boy had had no idea what it was like to live in darkness and pain as long as Spike had, and had had far more dreams come true than Spike ever considered wishing for. 

"I don't deserve you, pet, and that's the truth," Spike whispered to her. "You're the brightest thing I've known in a sunless life. You make me believe that there really is a good cause worth fighting for in this world, if even a monster like me can have one of your kisses." 

Buffy's response was to grab the back of his head and pull him into a searing kiss. "You say the sweetest things," she told him when she pulled away. "Why do you have to be so annoying at the same time?" 

"If I were perfect, pet," he growled between kisses, "I wouldn't be half so interesting." 

She tugged them both up onto the bed and they stretched out lengthwise on the comforter, Buffy lying on top of him. She glared down into his face, suddenly serious. "Five days, Spike." 

He grinned his response. "You're so bloody stubborn," he said. "If you'd given up two days ago you could've helped me move." 

"You always know the right thing to say," she groaned sarcastically, while her hands went to work unbuttoning his pants. Spike was busy himself, removing her shirt and bra with one hand while his other fumbled with the zipper on her jeans. 

"You always wear too much," he complained through a wide smile. 

"And you're going commando, as usual," she said, moving her hand quickly to emphasize that point. 

Spike's eyes shut and he had to stop moving for a moment to maintain control. "It's me own home, pet," he breathed. "I'll walk around starkers if I like." 

"Be it ever so arrogant," Buffy countered before meeting him for another searching, burning kiss. A few kicks and twists on their part and they were both naked, holding onto each other for dear life. For this was the dearest part of life for both of them, the most honest and free existence they knew, wrapped in their universe of two. And though it would last for hours it would be over far too quickly. 

Approximately four hours later they lay side-by-side, wrapped in the thin hotel linen. She was the first to speak. "Sorry about the wall." They both looked to their left, where the formerly-clean white wall now had a large indentation the size and shape of Spike's head and left shoulder. 

It came from a bit of energetic fun that Spike didn't regret at all. "'Sokay, luv," he said. "The room needed christening. Though since we're going to make this a regular site for wrestling I might want to put a pad up on that wall. No telling how much punishment it'll be expected to take." He chuckled to himself at the very thought of testing those limits. 

"I miss the candlelight," Buffy said. "There's no . . . mystery under these fluorescents." 

"I totally agree," Spike said. "I was getting used to the novelty of all this brightness, but you're right, it don't help the mood." He leaned to the right and kissed her shoulder, catching her eye. "Y'see, it's these little touches of Summers artistry that'll turn this place from an antiseptic little room into a real home." 

They returned to staring at the ceiling. "Antiseptic," Buffy said, tasting the word. 

"Hmm?" 

She turned onto her left side, facing Spike, and he turned to face her. 

"I noticed something earlier," Buffy said, "but I didn't want to spoil the mood." 

Of course not, Spike thought. You never bother to do that until AFTER you've gotten your happy. "Yes, dear?" he asked, trying his best to sound innocent. 

She couldn't quite meet his eyes as she began. "You know that I like how we can have conversations now. I really missed that, missed coming to you for understanding. And yeah, it means we have arguments even more than before, but that just means we get to make up." She smiled at him, at the memory of how heated and passionate they'd been only minutes ago. "But lately you've been getting into lecture mode," she continued, "as if you're some wise old man instructing me." 

He rubbed a hand across her naked midriff, causing her to shudder. "Don't you want the benefit of my experience?" 

She smirked at him in a copy of his own trademark look. "You KNOW I do. But you have to admit, there's been some change coming over you this Spring. And it's not just the time we spend together." 

Now it was Spike's turn to look away. "I'd hoped that it wasn't so noticeable. Sorry if I've been a right prat with my high talk and all." 

"If I knew what a prat was I still wouldn't call you that," Buffy said. "So what's been happening?" 

"Well, I guess it's the book, mostly. You don't know the publishing world, luv--these things don't happen overnight. I turned my book in for publication late last year, and I've had to live through months of galleys and typesetting choices and cover art approval and teleconferences about the PR campaign. And it's still weeks from actually coming out! Not to mention the fact that I have a contract for the next two books and a promise with my agent for four after that. I've been working on the sequels whenever I have the time." 

"Wow. No wonder you haven't had much time to help me with patrolling the last month." 

Now Spike definitely looked uncomfortable. "Uh, yeah. There's that, too. Y'see, Slayer, I've been coming to grips with something that I haven't wanted to admit. Fact is, I would have staked myself before saying this before, and we both know I tried to do just that two years ago. But now it's time I grew up and said it to you as well as myself." He took her hands and looked her fervently in the eyes. "I don't think I'm the Big Bad anymore, pet." 

Buffy stared into his desperate look, then couldn't help but snicker at him. "That's it? I could've told you that years ago, Chip Boy! You haven't been the Big Bad for--" She was interrupted by a loud growl from Spike as he rose in a flurry of sheets and left the bed. 

He stepped to his closet, out of view, and Buffy heard a drawer open and close. When he stepped back into view he was wearing a pair of boxers and had begun pacing. They both knew that he thought better while pacing, and Buffy rolled her eyes and prepared for another lecture from Professor Bloodsucker. 

"You don't understand," Spike told her, still moving, "you never did. You're just 21, you have no idea who you really are, who you're going to be. And you're not rushing to find out either one working at that burger place. You don't know what it's like to have an identity that keeps you warm and centered for a bleeding century!" Buffy was a little too stunned to interrupt him, and he took her silence as permission to dig into the meat of his argument. 

"I'm a person--a man, dammit, no matter how YOU choose to define that--just like you. I reflect the world that I've been shown. You and the bloody Scoobies have grown up with love and understanding, patience and kindness, since you were in diapers. We both know that Joyce was one hell of a mother, but I'll tell you this now, Slayer, I'm half-convinced that she was a saint. You think you got it tough as the Chosen One? If you go down in a fight at least you know that you gave it your all, that you were a warrior 'til the end. But Joyce gets to sit home all evening imagining each punch you take, and thinking that maybe you got the sniffles one evening and get knocked down by one hit too many. And it's all over for you and she won't even know for HOURS that you're even dead. Yet she showed you patience and love to the very end, Slayer; even took on a second child without complaint because it was just her lot in life and she took it like a soldier. God, if I'd known just one person like her while I was alive I might not be a monster today. 

"And so there's me. For more than a century I've been handed a steaming plate of blood and madness daily, watched my own bloody sire abandon me, and loved a woman who didn't know my name half the time. Every day with Drusilla was 'la la la, birds and whistles,' and I wanted SO MUCH to get into her head and share what she saw of the world. Not ONE of you ever considered how tempting it was to go mad alongside her, just drop the fight to keep a level head in this topsy-turvy hell we call reality and stop being her bloody anchor of normalcy. Who cares if we'd both survive as bleeding loonies? At least I'd have her WITH ME when she was with me! Even a day of that would have been paradise to me then. 

"And now there's Sunnyhell. I come to kill a Slayer and get staked in return. One glimpse of you in that alleyway and I'm smitten. You were more fire and strength than I'd seen in all my years, wrapped in a golden package. And I fight it, sure enough, because everything I've ever known has told me there's no hope for such things, there're no happy endings for things like me. The conqueror worm takes us all in the end, kiddies, so killing a Slayer's no worse than stepping on a daisy. So I thought. But then I'm right nackered by the Initiative and . . . and you lot take me in. Sure, at first it's to get information, and I'm thinkin' at the time that you'll dust me as soon as I'm empty of talk. But you never do. And once you find out I can kill demons you just LET ME GO. 

"I never saw anything like it. Spent the next few months trying to stay evil. The most I really achieved was just active selfishness. Even helping Adam wasn't for a bad cause--once he got my chip out I'd have turned him in as soon as I could and told you how to beat him. Nothing meant anything to me then: I was empty of love, empty of purpose, empty of will. That Summer's when I hit the wall, when I was a lot closer to staking myself than that pathetic attempt I made in Xander's basement. I had to face facts that the Spike I'd been for all those years had skarpered and left me holding the bag. 

"So something inside me, some instinct I didn't even know I had, something stronger than my demon, threw out a lifeline and snagged on my thoughts about you. 'Here 'tis, Spikey,' it said. 'Look no further, lad, you've got your role model. Beauty, passion, strength, and a purpose. When you have no one left to be you can be her. Or at least as close to her as a short-tempered, foul git like you can reach. Oh, and did we mention that you already love her?' And after that the Big Bad was nothing but a mask. I loved you with all my heart--still do--and it tears me to pieces some nights, especially when you don't want to be bothered. But you're my whole world, Slayer, you're the sun that I orbit, and when you reject me it's like the sun telling you that it won't rise this morning. I lived all of last Summer without a sun or a moon or anything, just stumbling through the darkness, expecting to fall off the edge of the world at any moment. 

"Then you came back." He ended on the floor at her feet, putting his head in her lap. By this time she was sitting at the foot of the bed, wrapped in white linen, watching him through silent tears. She ran her fingers through his hair as he continued to speak. "But it hasn't been much easier. No one's giving me a clear identity, neither you nor the Scoobies. Dawn stopped coming by my crypt ages ago, which is a good sign, I suppose--shows that she's becoming her own person. I'm not officially your lover because you won't speak about me to anyone. I'm not officially a Scoobie because no matter how many demons or vamps I kill I get no credit for them. I'm not even a vampire anymore, because I don't hunt for my food--at best I'm a ghoul on a liquid diet." 

He suddenly sat up on his knees, looking into her eyes. "But I'm not cryin' on your shoulder, luv. Don't think that. I'm just-- I'm trying to explain something, and as usual I'm not getting to the point. Y'see, I found something this Spring, what with the book and all. There was a part of me that I'd forgotten that I'd left behind, but he's breathing in me now through the words. The words, baby, they've given me a life again!" 

Spike stood now, gesturing as he paced. "As a vampire, you sort-of get used to the things you've given up. No more sun, no more real human company, no more family. You usually get to compensate for these things with power, and it's quite a narcotic. Me, I used to think that I left everything bad behind me when I died and finally found my true self as a vampire. Because, as I've told you, I was nothing but a lovesick wanker back then, a poet who still hung onto Coleridge in the 1870's! I was only too happy to leave William the Bloody Awful Poet in a shallow grave in England. 

"But since I've started writing--oh, Buffy, it's like there was a room in my heart I didn't even know was closed because it'd been nailed shut for so long. I couldn't write well as a living man because I didn't know people, didn't understand them. But now my heart's caught up with my vocabulary. It started slowly, but the more I wrote last year the more alive I felt. The words are flowing through me like blood, luv, and they're the best diet I've ever had. I'm--" He paused, searching for phrases. "I'm a rusty winepress that still gives a good vintage. It's good to feel useful again, to know that I'm producing something that people appreciate. 'Sall I've ever wanted, really: to be needed." He finally seemed to have run out of steam and exhaustedly sat at Buffy's side on the end of the bed. 

Buffy took a minute to pull herself together. "So now that you've found your inner Giles--" They both chuckled at the phrase, and allowed their eyes to meet. "Well, is this why you've been avoiding patrols?" 

Spike nodded. "I've been taking my violence out on the keyboard," he said. "I find when I get a good steam going I don't really need to tear body parts off things. Amazing, huh?" 

"Yeah." Buffy didn't know exactly what to say. As much as she appreciated how human he was becoming, it was also disconcerting. For so long he'd been this monster that she could safely keep at a distance--emotionally speaking, of course. If he became a man, and did it for her sake to boot, she'd have to start admitting some things she didn't want to. Put up or shut up time. Really scary. 

"Buffy," he said, bringing her attention back to his shining blue eyes. "I want you to know how much I've appreciated you being here for me while I went through this. I couldn't have admitted this to anyone else--even if the Nibblet were to ask me, I'd still insist I was the Big Bad and just as evil as I'd always been. But with you I can take off my masks. You're the only one who really listens to me." 

"Oh my God," Buffy breathed, "you sound just like me." 

"Well, we've sorta been to the same places, luv." He met her steady gaze for a few seconds, then smirked. "Okay, okay, I haven't been to Heaven, you're right. But I never understood why you wanted to be 'normal' when you seemed to have everything already. But now that I've tasted it I can see what you meant. It helps me understand what you're going through a bit more." 

Buffy suddenly looked around to the digital clock by the bed and jumped up. "God, it's 3 A.M. I have to get to sleep. I have too much to think about now." 

"You'll bunk down here," Spike said, already rising and smoothing out the sheets and comforter. "It won't be a problem." 

"It will if I come home tomorrow wearing the same clothes I went patrolling in." 

Concentrating on his task, Spike said, "If you look in my closet you'll find three pairs of jeans and a few of those pullover tops you like in a variety of colors, all your size." He looked at her and shrugged. "I told you I went shopping." 

"So in the morning--" 

"In the morning," he finished for her, "you'll have a relaxing shower while I order breakfast from room service. I know that Dawn's been getting herself to school just fine these days, so you won't have to rush. Just have breakfast with me, then go to The Magic Box--it's just four blocks away, right?" 

This newly competent Spike might take some adjustment. But then again, it was pleasant not to have to think of alibis and lies all by herself. If he was still willing to keep them secret then she might as well enjoy the improvement. "We could get room service? Really?" 

"Kitchen's open 24 hours, luv," he said, pulling back the sheet and comforter and motioning for her to get into the bed. He knew she preferred the right side. "Maybe tomorrow night we could start a bit earlier. Have dinner here, say. And then I'd go help you with patrol." He'd turned off the room's lights as he spoke, leaving only the bedside lamp on. 

Buffy climbed into bed and set a weary head on the comfortable pillows, better than anything the old crypt bed had offered. "Sounds like a plan," she muttered, before falling asleep with Spike at her side, their hands intertwined beneath the sheets. He kissed her shut eyes quietly, lovingly, before falling asleep himself. 

TO BE CONTINUED 

Author's note: I'm so terribly sorry for taking a MONTH to update this, but I'd rather turn in a late chapter than a crappy chapter. The overall story is much clearer in my mind now, and further updates won't take nearly as long. Get ready for Chapter 3, where Buffy and the Scoobs find out the subject matter of Spike's book. 


	3. The First Peek

TITLE: BECKY AND SPIKE FOREVER (Part 3)   
AUTHOR: Kevin A. Poston (Fojiao2)   
DISCLAIMER: I own none of the characters used in this story and profit by them not at all. They are the sole property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and anyone else Joss okays.   
RATING: R   
FEEDBACK: What are you, crazy? OF COURSE I want feedback! Everything you can spare! Like, now!   
SUMMARY: Spike authors a successful series of "Becky The Vampire Slayer" books--but it just may cost him his chances with Buffy! Spoilers through "Older and Far Away" (Season Six). "As You Were" never happened. (Oh, if only that were true!) 

PART THREE: The First Peek 

The next day, late in the afternoon, Spike was trying new software on his laptop when there was a knock at his door. He hadn't expected any visitors, and knew that Buffy would just come in. Feeling wary--it was still new to have a door that anyone knocked on--he approached the door and opened it. 

"Dawn?!" he said. 

The younger Summers girl was grinning at him from the hall. "Hey, Spike. Can I come in?" 

"Uh . . . " He paused, then bowed and swept his arm toward the room. "Enter freely and of your own accord." 

She giggled and entered, dropping her backpack by the coffeetable, and he smiled at her as she looked the room over. "So, big sis tell you where I was now?" 

Dawn nodded, looking at his collection of CDs. "That and other things," she said, now purposefully trying to keep him from seeing the big smile she was hiding. 

Spike started to close the door, then hesitated. He considered for a moment and left it open. William Bloody was trying to establish a normal human identity--being arrested on a morals charge because he had a 15-year-old girl in his room wouldn't help matters. Best that it look as innocent as possible. He turned to see that Dawn had pulled back his black curtains and was looking at the view from his windows, surrounding herself in sunlight. He couldn't approach her if he wanted to. "Uh, Little Bit? I'm over here." 

"I know, I know. I just wanted to look the place over." She spun around to grin at him, then motioned toward the bed to her left. "Nice bed. Get a good workout on it?" 

"Dawn!" Spike shouted, utterly shocked. "What the hell--?" 

That's when Dawn ran across the room and leaped onto Spike, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Ohhh, Spike! Buffy told me everything! You're her boyfriend! It's, like, too good to be true!" 

Spike disentangled the young girl from around his neck and became shy, not quite meeting her eyes. "Well, yeah, that's pretty much how I think about it. When did she tell you?" 

Dawn threw herself down on his couch, stretching out lazily. "Not this morning, that's for sure, 'cause I had to get up and make my own lunch. Not that that's anything new. But she called the school and said she wanted to see me, so she took her lunch break when I got out and we talked." She sat up, staring intently at Spike, who'd taken a chair to meet her eye level. "Damn, Spike, how long has this been going on?" 

He counted off on his fingers in a typical manner. "One, watch your damn language, Bit. Two, I'm not telling you anything until you tell me what Buffy said. You're not going to get anything from me that she doesn't want you to know." 

Dawn smirked. "Yeah, you're too good for that old trick. She just told me that you've been seeing each other for a while, that that's part of the reason she hasn't been spending as much time with me. And she said that she couldn't let anyone else know because of how they'd react. Oh, and that Tara knows." 

"Yeah, she's known for a while. Since before Buffy's birthday party. Even gave us an alibi so we could go on a date once." 

"Hmm, I'll have to talk to her later. And Buffy told me to give you a message." 

"Message? What?" 

"I don't have this word-for-word, but it's like you really showed her something last night." Dawn couldn't help the smirk that came to her face, and Spike gave her an exasperated look bordering on real anger. "I mean, she said that you showed her last night that you were really serious. You impressed her. And she wanted to do something to show you that she was serious, too. So, voila," she finished, pointing to herself. 

Spike took this silently. He leaned forward in his chair, with his elbows on his knees and his hands cupping his face, and stared into space. He let the silence stretch out until Dawn became uncomfortable. "Uh, Earth to Spike? Ya there?" 

He suddenly snapped back to the reality of the room and Dawn. "Oh! Sorry, Dawn, I was just . . . daydreaming, I suppose. Have you ever wished for something so much that you've nearly died to have it? And prayed and cried and done all sorts of silly crap just to get you nearer to that place you've dreamed of? And then, out of the blue--the clouds part and you can actually see it. You're not there yet but you've been given the first real evidence that it'll happen. That's how I'm feeling." 

"Wow," Dawn said. "Is that what Buffy meant when she told me about 'lecture mode?'" 

Spike chuckled. "I guess so, Bit." 

"You know, I've been rooting for you guys for so long. It's so great to know that you're together." 

"Let's hope that it stays that way," he said. "With the way your sister blows hot and cold I never know just where I'm standing." 

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Dawn knew exactly what he was talking about. She loved her sister dearly, and saw her as her own personal hero. But she was also a victim of Buffy's fickle nature. Buffy could be abjectly humble one moment, letting her guilt about her actions bring her to her knees. But then her Slayer nature would kick in, the force that knew no retreat, and she could just as quickly attack the sister she'd just apologized to, or just as suddenly treat Dawn with the same unconscious indifference that she'd felt so guilty about. In her memories she knew that Buffy had not always been like this--only since she became the Slayer had she become so conflicted about life, so confused as a person. And the two people who loved her most now sat, just feeling the weight of their love on their shoulders. 

"So, I hear you're an author now," Dawn said, breaking the silence. 

"I was always an author, Little Bit," Spike answered. "Now I'm merely published." 

"Whatever. So what's the book about? Buffy said you were pretty vague about it." 

Spike gave her a deep considering look. "I wonder if you can keep a secret, Dawn." 

"Of course I can!" 

"No, I mean a big secret. As big as a certain vampire helping you retrieve a Ghora demon egg for a certain resurrection spell. Something you can't tell or it could end in me being staked." 

Dawn was suddenly very solemn. They never talked about that night, even over the long summer of Buffy's death. Dawn, of course, never told Buffy that Spike had helped her, knowing that it would just get him staked or, at the very least, beaten down so hard he'd never go near Dawn again. But the secret was doubly hard on her because she never told Spike the consequences of the spell, never told him that she had in fact done it and it had worked, but that she'd cancelled it. When he saw her the next day, anxious to know if Joyce was back among the living, she only said that it fizzled out because she couldn't really do magic well enough. He'd complained about taking a lick from the Ghora to help her, but said that maybe in the end it was best that she not get involved in magic. 

To bring that up again here, now, told her that the secret was very large and dangerous. And she truly hesitated before answering, thinking about consequences and how much extra stress she could really take on besides working under Anya to pay off what she'd stolen. But Spike was her best male friend, almost her brother--there was no way he'd put her under some danger. So the danger must be all on his end; and that she could handle. She met his eyes and said, "Okay. I swear not to tell anyone." 

He nodded once at the statement and crossed the room to his refrigerator. There was a small flash of blue when he opened it, then Dawn recognized his normal packets of pig's blood. She briefly wondered if, now that he was rich, he could afford human blood. And what that would mean. 

"This won't involve blood, will it?" Dawn asked. 

"No. I just hid it in here because I knew no one would go poking around my bloodpacks." When Spike turned around he held a glossy-covered paperback in his hand, the predominant colors a dark gray and blood red. "This is my book, Nibblet. Early author's copy. I wanted you to see it before anyone else and tell me your thoughts. It won't come out for another month, so I had plenty of time to bring it over. But seeing as you're here . . ." He returned to his chair and passed it to her. 

The cover was dominated by half a girl's face that ran the length of the spine side. She was a pretty blonde with sea-green eyes and looked innocent and determined at the same time. The small picture to the right of the face showed the same blonde girl in a black tanktop and red pants, clutching a stake in one hand while she kicked a fanged man in the chest. They were in a cemetery, and there were three other vampires (obviously) menacing her. The blurb at the top said in large letters: BECKY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER. In somewhat smaller letters just under that was the subtitle: BOOK ONE: Welcome To The Hellpit. In letters even smaller, at the bottom right of the cover, it said WILLIAM T. BLOODY. 

Dawn looked up at him in pure shock. "Oh. My. God," she said. "You wrote a book about Buffy? You didn't write a book about Buffy! You wrote about Buffy?" 

Spike nodded. "I started it last summer. At first it was . . . an homage. Because it seemed like the world had forgotten about her and didn't appreciate what she'd gone through. When she came back, though, it seemed like a good way to make a buck. And I think it's still good that the world knows what the Slayer goes through to keep it all running." 

"But-- but-- She'll kill you!" Dawn shouted. 

"Will you at least look at it before deciding I should die?" 

"It won't be my decision," she grumbled, looking at the fat paperback in her hands. She took a peek at the last page number--400 pages, a good size--but was afraid to really open it. "You probably make Angel look like a dork! And Xander--Oh man, what did you do to Xander in here?" 

There was only so much even a calmer Spike could take. He growled at her and gave her a flash of yellow in his eyes. "What does it bloody well take for you Summers girls to get an ounce of TRUST?" he said, punctuating the last word with a fist hitting the table. "Will you bloody well read part of it before sentencing me?!" 

So Dawn opened the book. There was a brief prologue about who the Slayer was, how she came from a millennia-old tradition older than civilization, and how it was her job alone to kill the vampires and demons that plagued the world. Dawn had known this for years, of course, but it was the first time she'd ever seen it in print. And knowing that books just like this were going to appear all over the country--the whole concept scared her. Fearing the worst, she flipped a few pages into Chapter 1 and read: 

_ Merely a sophomore in high school, Becky had little idea what she wanted in life. All she was sure of was what she didn't want: vampires. The whole world of darkness, in fact. She knew very well that the sunshine world that most people took for granted was just a surface gloss on the stronger, more dangerous reality that had entered her life only a year before. But just because she knew it was there didn't mean that she had to give it her attention. And she definitely didn't have to be the Slayer. Let someone else take the reins, stalk through cemeteries at night, and guarantee themselves a shorter lifespan. Becky was going to break free and have a life, have a husband, children, the house in the suburbs with the white picket fence: the whole deal. And ironically, it was her strength as the Slayer that fueled her ambition to get this_. 

Dawn looked up at Spike after reading this. It was the kind of thing Buffy had said for years, but she wondered how he knew how Buffy felt on her first day at Sunnydale High. She flipped forward in the book and started reading another passage. 

_ They sat on one of the stone benches in the school's open courtyard. Rowan turned to Becky and said, "I don't know why you'd want to spend time with me. I warn you now, your popularity quotient is going to plummet just being seen with me."_   
_ "It's a risk I'm willing to take," Becky said, putting a reassuring hand on Rowan's shoulder. A year before she might have asked herself why she would dare lose any popularity, especially in a brand new school. But she'd fought more than a few battles and killed personal demons as well as the literal ones. The 'defend the defenseless' part of her heritage cried out to this pretty redhead, and she refused to give up on her. "Besides, who wouldn't want to be your friend? You have a lot going for you! You're smart, pretty, funny. And I can tell right away that you have a good heart."_   
_ Rowan blushed and ducked her head. "I've just never really been Confidence Girl."_   
_ "Rowan," Becky said, and the redhead looked up to see a firm, frowning, determined expression on Becky's face. "This is my resolve face," Becky said. "I use it in battle . . . uh, when battling with my fears, y'know." She put her fingers on her temples and then moved them to the same spots on Rowan's face. "I do hereby give it to you."_   
_ Rowan was floored by the symbolic gesture. "I can have your resolve face?" she squeaked. "But you're such a strong person. I couldn't handle it."_   
_ Becky took her hands. "Of course you can. You have that strength in you, if you'd just use it."_   
_ "Hey hey, a tender moment!" some guy called. Both girls looked up to a grinning, open, honest face._   
_ "Pax!" Rowan squealed, and pulled him closer to them. "Becky, this is Paxton Morris, my best friend since kindergarten."_   
_ "Everyone calls me Pax," he said lightly. "And didn't I meet you in the hallway?"_   
_ "Uh, yeah. I guess," Becky said, suddenly shy. He was a cute enough guy, but she wasn't sure how close he and Rowan were and wasn't about to make any move without better information._   
_ "Pax means 'peace' in Latin," Rowan said._   
_ "I was wondering when you'd get around to that," said another guy, joining the threesome._   
_ "Jimmy!" Rowan said, shooting off the bench and hugging him. "I haven't seen you all day."_   
_ The new young man smilingly disengaged himself from his friend and threw a playful fist at Pax's shoulder. "Funny, I've been seeing Pax here all day long. Guess we two don't rate the accelerated courses you're taking."_   
_ "Aww, don't think like that!" the redhead told him, taking her seat by Becky again._   
_ Becky was amazed and delighted to see how Rowan lit up when the two boys came. The shell that so far had hidden her heart was completely removed around them, and the Slayer felt herself warming to this bright, sparkling personality that was Rowan even more. _Look what can happen when you treat people with decency_, she thought. The two young men now stood before the girls like knights-in-waiting. "I'm Jimmy, by the way," the brunette boy said, introducing himself to Becky. "We've known each other forever, and I'm the Aramis part of this little Three Musketeers company."_   
_ "So I'm Porthos?" Rowan said, the only one among the four to have actually read the book. "Thanks a lot!"_   
_ "I'm Becky Winters," the blonde said to Jimmy, getting some clearer signals from Rowan about his availability._   
_ Pax cleared his throat, looking into Becky's eyes. "Uh, as I said. You bumped into me in the hallway. And I believe you dropped your, uh, pointy wood." He held one of Becky's hand-carved stakes out to her._   
_ She flushed in embarrassment and grabbed the stake, fumbling to get it back into her purse._   
_ Jimmy leaned in close to Pax's ear and whispered, "Dude, I saw you in the hallway. She wasn't the one with wood, y'know?"_   
_ Pax pushed his friend away, smiling, and turned his attention back to Becky. "So why--?" he began._   
_ "Oh. My. God," said Regan Chambers, approaching them out of nowhere. "Becky, what the hell are you doing HERE? Are you trying to commit social suicide?" Her eyes slid sideways to look down on the redhead. "Ooh. Rowan Cohen, not worth knowin'," she rhymed._   
_ Rowan was immediately hurt at the familiar line and looked to Becky, whose eyes sparkled with hostility toward the interloper. But she knew that it was her place to fight this battle, not Becky's. Rowan mentally slipped on her resolve face and turned to Regan with anger for the first time in her life. "You've been saying that since the fifth grade," Rowan said. "Isn't it time for some new material?"_   
_ "Yeah," Pax fairly growled at Regan through clenched teeth. "Don't you have a little girl to terrorize on a yellow brick road? I'm sure the flying monkeys miss you."_   
_ "Regan," Jimmy said, pushing Pax out of the way and already stumbling over his own feet at the sight of this girl. "You don't have to listen to this stuff. Why don't I escort you to your locker?"_   
_ The beautiful girl snorted. "Right. As if I'd let you breathe my air," she said. "Becky, I was going to invite you to go with us to The Forge tonight, but if you're gonna spend your free time hanging with these losers then I don't see why I bothered."_   
_ "Free time?" Rowan said. "We were just getting ready to go to class."_   
_ "Duh!" Regan said. "We've all been let out because of the dead kid they just found in the locker room."_   
_ Alarmed, Becky leaned toward Rowan and said, "Gotta go. See ya later. How about at The Forge?" Rowan quickly nodded her head, and Becky was off to investigate the death in the school._   
_ "Ah, the first corpse of Autumn," she heard Jimmy quip as she left them. "Sure sign that school really has started again."_

Dawn giggled. "What, what?" Spike said, very much the nervous author. 

"That 'first corpse of Autumn' thing," she said. "They still say that at my school." 

"Ah, I see," Spike said. If it were possible for him to sweat he would have filled a bucket by now. As it was he was dangerously close to letting his demon free for a bit. Sitting here while his work was read was really the most nerve-wracking thing he'd done since being tortured by Glory. Note to self, he thought. Next time give the book over and run. 

Dawn closed the book on her finger. "This is really good, you know. It's so . . . them! It's like you were standing behind them when they first met. How'd you do it?" 

"Well, I hear stories, Bit. I listen. You'd be surprised how many points of view I get from all sorts of people telling the same tale. The stuff that Giles and the Scoobies and the Slayer haven't told me, I heard from Angelus when I was stuck in that wheelchair. He loved to blab the secrets of the Summers household. And of course, Dru told me things that nobody else could know, seeing as she could dip into minds." Not to mention that he had thoroughly read Buffy's diary back in the days when his obsession with her first started. But it was best not to tell Dawn that. He'd even had conversations with Harris' parents when they'd come down to do laundry and he was staying in their basement. He'd charmed the mom and gotten the dad drunk straight off. It had given him a much clearer understanding of Xander--but it was best that NO ONE knew that. 

Dawn looked back at the book, then at him. "That Regan girl is Cordelia, right? Why'd you call her Regan?" 

"Well, Lear only had three daughters. What'd you want me to call her, Goneril?" 

"Ew, no!" 

"Well then." 

Dawn shook her head. "It looks like you're making them look okay." 

"Keep reading. You'll see that I don't do any of 'em real harm." 

Nodding, Dawn opened the book up again near the middle. 

_ The strange man was out by the tree again, the one that looked up on Becky's window. Hope wondered if "Slayer senses" could detect creepy stalker guys. But then those senses were things Becky was just starting to learn how to use, or so Jeeves said. She was a lot better at punching than sensing. Of course, she always had been._   
_ It was time to be a hero like big sis. Sure, it was dark, and she knew for a fact that there were scary things that moved around in the nights in Sunnyvale. But Becky couldn't be everywhere--somehow, sometime, she'd have to learn to stand up for herself. So far she'd only dared to step onto the back porch in the evenings, but now she felt strong enough to venture further. She took one tentative step off the wooden step, letting her bare foot touch the cool grass, then brought the other foot down to match it. She still held the banister, though._   
_ Hope released the banister and took three courageous steps toward the tree before the tall dark shape turned to her and said, "Hello."_   
_ She squealed and scrambled back to the safety of the porch. She hoped her mom didn't hear her, and even more strongly hoped that Becky didn't hear. She sat on the porch and hugged the banister, staring hard at the man in the shadows._   
_ "I didn't mean to frighten you," he said. "I mean you no harm." She heard a strong Latino accent in his words. _Duh, Hopie, welcome to Southern California_, she thought. _Or should he call you Esperanza?   
_ "Could I--?" He seemed hesitant, then stepped out of the shadows and into the yellow light cast by the streetlights. He was very tall and dressed all in black. His black hair was sculpted and immaculate, and he had a neatly-trimmed goatee that fit the long lines of his face perfectly. "Could I join you over there? Con permisso?"_   
_ "You can't come onto our porch," the defiant little girl said._   
_ "Wouldn't dream of it," the man said with a winning smile. He stepped closer to the porch and looked down at Hope. Only if she stood on the porch's railing would she be able to look him in the eye. From this distance, and in the porch's light, she could see that he was incredibly handsome. His olive complexion perfectly suited the dark colors he wore, and his chocolate-brown eyes sparkled with intellect and wit._   
_ "I really do not mean you any harm," he said. "I'm only here to make sure that the Slayer is safe."_   
_ Hope's eyes widened. "You know Becky's the Slayer?" she asked._   
_ He nodded. "I'm a friend of Becky's," he answered. "My name is Deo."_   
_ "Day-o," Hope pronounced. "Are you her boyfriend?"_   
_ She caught a flash of panic and hope that crossed his face before he resumed the good humor he'd worn before. "No, no, nothing like that. It's just that your sister has a lot of enemies. And she can't be everywhere at once. So I'm sort-of guarding her back, making sure that she's safe while she sleeps. And hopefully protecting her family while she's patroling."_   
_ "I'm ten," Hope said. "I don't need protecting, even on the Heckpit. I can take care of myself."_   
_ Deo hunched down until their eyes were level. "And I'm twenty times your age. But even I need friends to help me, to guard my back. No one should go through this world alone, especially not in a place like the Hellpit."_   
_ "I thought you were Becky's friend."_   
_ "I could be yours, too. That is, if you don't have too many already."_   
_ She smiled at that. "Silly. Who can have too many friends?"_   
_ He smiled back at her under the buzzing porch light. "A philosophy I agree with completely."_

Dawn quietly closed the book. Spike's head shot up, his eyes wide. "What? What is it?" 

Dawn looked up, once again very solemn. "I just read the scene where I first met Angel, out on the porch." 

Spike nodded. "Yes. And?" 

"And I wasn't really there," she said. "That didn't happen. I still haven't ACTUALLY met Angel, I just have memories of us. He'd left and the Initiative had already been destroyed and you had that chip in your head, all before I even appeared. But you put me in there anyway." 

Spike was suddenly cast out of his nervousness by Dawn's attitude. He leaned forward and put a hand on her knee. "Of course I did, Bit. This whole book is built from memories. If they're not real then that doesn't make them any less powerful. In our private history--the personal story that's running through our heads--you are very much a part of all those events. And you bring an extra measure of happiness to what happened, even when times were at their worst. It would have been criminal to leave you out." 

Dawn was silent for a good two minutes before she choked out, "Thank you." 

"No problem." He let the silence stretch and then said, "Mind you, you won't do much in the books 'til you're much older. Except be kidnapped, and rescued by yours truly." She looked up again with a bit more humor. 

She even chuckled. "I'd forgotten that I used to call it the Heckmouth." 

"Cutest thing I ever heard." 

"And Jeeves?" she said. "If Buffy doesn't kill you, Giles will do it for that." 

"Nonsense. He's a P.G. Wodehouse fan, he'll get the joke." 

"So Angel is Latino?" she said with a smirk. 

He smirked back at her. "Spanish, actually. 'The Second Torquemada.' I'm still enough of an Englishman to know that I can't write an Irish accent and I won't even try." 

"And what's up with naming me Hope?" 

"Four letters. Easy to turn it into 'Esperanza,' a nickname that Deo will have for you. Plus, it's just as precious and twee as 'Dawn.'" 

She stuck her tongue out at him. "So if Angel without his soul is Angelus, what's Deo?" 

Spike took the book from her, flipped through it expertly to a certain section, and pointed with this thumb to a page just past the middle. "Here, read this. It's where the reader discovers that Deo's a vampire." 

_ Darcy lingered behind Deo's back, letting her hand dance along his shoulders, knowing the effect she was having on him and knowing even more just how much he hated each delicious contact she made with his skin. "What would she say, your little cheerleader heroine?" she purred into his ear. "What would she say if she knew the truth?"_   
_ "She won't find out," Deo growled back, looking straight forward, careful to avoid her gaze. He was stronger than he'd been in a long time, stronger than even she knew. But only two years before he'd been feeding off rats in alleys and looking for the quickest, cheapest way to die, while she had spent the last century practicing the arts of seduction._   
_ "You haven't even kissed her yet, have you?" Darcy asked. "My my, the first time she touches those cold lips, she's bound to know."_   
_ "I have plenty of blood," he responded. "I keep myself warm."_   
_ "I'll tell her myself," she said brightly._   
_ "And I'll stake you," Deo promised. "Count on it."_   
_ "Stake your own sire?" Her laughter was sparkling. "Having a soul has perverted you in practically every way, Diablo, but even you haven't sunk that far. Your precious 'nobility' wouldn't permit such an affront."_   
_ "I'm not Diablo!" he shouted, standing and shrugging her hand off his shoulder. His human visage slipped off like a loose glove, revealing the demon within. He glared at her through yellow eyes and bared his fangs. "I left that behind long ago! I'm Deo now, with a soul and a purpose! And if you harm that mission you'll be just another pile of dust that I'll step over!"_   
_ There wasn't a hint of fear in Darcy's eyes. "Tell it to someone who gives a damn," she growled, letting her own demonic features slide into place. "Fact is, your little Slayer is going down. The Harvest will happen. The Master will rise. And YOU'RE the one who'll wind up dusty if you get in our way."_

Dawn was laughing enough to hold her stomach. "Diablo!" she squealed when she could speak again. "Oh, that's just perfect!" 

Spike didn't look happy. "I wasn't trying to insult him, I swear," he said. "I just needed some name that would fit with 'Angel' without actually saying 'Angel.'" 

"Well, I think it's fine. Gah, Spike, you're really being a lot more fair than I thought you'd be. Wait, wait, let me read the end," she said, opening it to the last page. 

_ In the silent aftermath they all stood looking around the now-empty Forge, appreciating that they had won but also knowing what they had lost. In one corner stood the ashes of Jimmy, who Pax himself had been forced to kill. He'd kept Jeeves' words in his mind as he held the stake to what had once been his best friend: "You're not looking at your friend; you're looking at the thing that killed him." He had to hold onto these words, keep repeating them in his head, or he felt he just might go crazy. God, his life had been one twisted roller coaster since school started, since the day he met Becky Winters. Barely two months from that day and everything he ever knew had changed. He met a girl who was different like him, who was special and beautiful and seemed to really care for him. Then she turned out to be some long-dead Incan mummy who sucked the life out of his classmates and almost did the same to him. And now he'd killed his friend Jimmy, the guy who was going to be best man at his wedding some day, the guy who'd sit with him on the couch and watch football on Sunday afternoons when they both had kids running around and wives to keep them away from the remote control. The guy who was supposed to be around forever. But forever didn't mean much these days, did it?_   
_ Deo looked at a similar pile of ashes. Darcy, his sire, the woman who'd taken a drunken rent-boy from the streets of Madrid and turned him into the Scourge of Europe, the Second Torquemada. He could find much to blame her for, and it would be tempting to lay the burden of his many sins at her feet and find some joy in his soul. But that was just a foolish fantasy, an easy escape. She'd only given him the power to change lives, and while he regretted what he'd done with that power for more than a century, he had to appreciate that now he still had the ability to right those wrongs, to make the world a better place. She'd given him all of that, the bad and the good, the disease and the promise. What tortured him most was that his greatest regret about her death was that she was no longer here to tell him where The Master was hiding._   
_ Becky sat exhaustedly on the stage. Killing Luke had been easy compared to the dozens of other vampires she'd had to kill just_   
_to get to him. And like Pax, one phrase kept repeating through her head. It was something her first Watcher, Merrick, had told her on_   
_that day more than a year in the past, that day when she found out that she was the Slayer and killed her first vampire. "You see what power you have? You see what you can do?" But she hadn't really seen it then, and after burning down the gym of her old school she still didn't accept the consequences of who she was. But her two months on the Hellpit had finally taught her to accept it. She was the Slayer. It wasn't a temporary gig, it wasn't something she could quit because she didn't like it, and there would always be a need for her power to put down Evil and save the world. Because now she'd done it--literally saved the world and stopped The Master from turning Sunnyvale into a vampire feeding park. It felt good. And speaking of that--_   
_ "Deo," she said, reaching out her hand to him. The dark vampire shook himself free of his brooding and looked up at her, smiling when their eyes locked. He stepped over to Becky and took her hand, then cupped her face with his other hand and kissed her, long and deep._   
_ Standing to the side, Rowan watched her with clear envy. She'd found love this year, too, just like Pax. So what if Malcolm had been just an Internet crush--the things he'd written and the way he made her feel were real, and that was enough for her. Okay, so he'd turned out to actually be a demon named Moloch and tried to kill her friends as well as take over the world. No one was perfect. Even if the whole experience had crashed and burned, she still treasured the memory of being cared for and having someone tell her she was special and loved. Though she still held out hope that someday Pax would see what he had standing right in front of him._   
_ At that moment, however, Pax was looking at Jeeves. A vampire had knocked the Watcher unconscious early in the battle, but now Jenny Kalendros had finally shaken him awake. They were both so relieved to see that they'd survived that they began kissing feverishly, and were still doing so by the bar. Pax stepped over to Rowan and elbowed her, catching her attention. He pointed to Jeeves and visibly shuddered._   
_ Rowan looked, nodded sadly, and then pointed to Becky, who by now was into some serious tongue wrestling with Deo. Pax looked and felt nauseous. _Sickening_, he thought. _Just sickening. What the hell does she see in that guy, anyway? Give me 200+ years and I could look just as tall and handsome.   
_ "Well, I guess they're all getting their happy endings," Rowan said. "Except you and me, of course. We're doomed to be alone."_   
_ "Isn't that kinda how we thought we'd be even before the vampires entered our lives?" Pax asked._   
_ "Yeah, but at least we had each other."_   
_ Pax reached out and hugged his friend to him. "We still do," he said, trying desperately to keep tears out of his voice._   
_ "I miss Jimmy already," she said into his chest._   
_ "Me too." They then fell into an easy silence, just holding each other and rocking, two old friends with no one else to hold. Pax, his head on top of Rowan's, looked from Jeeves and Jenny at one end of the club to Becky and Deo at the other end. "I guess you're right," he said. "Those two couples are destined to be together forever."_

"Ooh, what a tease!" Dawn shouted. "You know damn well that they're both going to be heartbroken!" 

"It's what makes for good storytelling," Spike argued. "Why do you think I'm so addicted to Passions? They do stuff like that all the time. Besides, they're all going to be fine until the fourth book. I'm thinking of the big picture here--I have a whole series to write, Bit. And you also know too well that Pax and Rowan aren't really 'doomed to be alone,' don't you?" 

"Yeah, I guess so," said Dawn. "But I thought The Harvest happened on Buffy's first week at school." 

"So I messed with time a little; it's no big deal. Xander and Willow also didn't find love before The Harvest, I'll tell you that, but it worked for the story. I needed a big crisis to end this book, just like The Master rising and killing Becky will be the denouement for the second one. Look on the back, it says it there." 

She turned the book over to see the short synopsis of the story on the back cover and found a bright splash of color around the words: "Look for BOOK TWO: The Master Shall Rise, coming in Christmas 2002." "Hey," she said, "the next book's coming out awful soon." 

"The publishers don't think so," he said. "The first one'll come out on Glory Day, and they think it'll be snapped up. Then when the second one comes out they re-issue the first and really clean up on Christmas sales. Or something. I'm not really sure how it works, and I don't much care as long as I get paid." 

"Glory Day? When's that?" 

"Y'know, in a month. When--" He stopped, suddenly realizing who he was talking to. 

Dawn's eyes widened as she realized. "Oh my God, you're right. It'll be exactly a year to the day that Buffy died." 

"Wrong!" he said, pointing his index finger. "It's the day Glory died. That's how I'll remember it, anyway. And I hope to hell that none of you will be thinking of an anniversary surrounding Buffy's death." 

"Of-- of course not. We just--" Dawn stopped and gulped. "To be honest, none of us have been thinking about it. We've just had so much else going on, y'know." 

"Well I think about it," Spike growled. "I've counted every bloody day that she's been back with us--that's 334--and I mark each one as a blessing. Maybe you lot have forgotten what we went through without her but I bloody well haven't." 

Wanting desperately to change the subject, Dawn held up the book. "Spike, you have to let me take this. I'll die if I don't read it!" 

He still didn't look happy, but his mood lessened as Dawn turned her puppy dog eyes on him at full power. "Please please please please please," she begged. 

He had to smirk at her. "Okay, Bit. But make sure you hide it as well as you hid your ill-gotten gains, 'kay?" 

The teenager stood up and put the book into her backpack, already exasperated. "Gah, that was, like, months ago! Don't you people ever forget a mistake?" she whined, walking out the door.   


TO BE CONTINUED 

Author's note: This chapter was becoming way too large and unwieldy, so in the interests of frequent postings I chopped it up and renamed it. Hope you like it. And this means Chapter 4 will be here all the sooner! 


	4. Discoveries

**TITLE**: BECKY AND SPIKE FOREVER (Part 4)   
**AUTHOR**: Fojiao2 (Kevin Poston)   
**DISCLAIMER**: I own none of the characters used in this story and profit by them not at all. They are the sole property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and anyone else Joss okays. Judy Ramirez IS my own, but Joss can have her if he wants; it's a fair trade.   
**FEEDBACK**: OF COURSE, everything you can spare! But if you want to YELL AT ME for being slow in posting a new chapter, I'd rather you send e-mail than leave abusive reviews, no matter how well-deserved they may be.   
**SUMMARY**: Spike authors a successful series of "Becky The Vampire Slayer" books—but it just may cost him his chances with Buffy! Spoilers through "Older and Far Away" (Season Six). "As You Were" never happened, and everything is AU past that point so no Dead Tara, no Crazy Willow, and NONE of the events from "Seeing Red." Buffy and Spike's relationship has coasted into the spring with still almost no one else knowing. Even the Nerdy Three have faded into the background.   
**DEDICATION**: This chapter is for the beautiful Ditto-Spikette, my light-o'-love. 

**PART FOUR: Discoveries**

Judy Ramirez, Night Manager at The Sunnydale Arms, had seen just about everything in her tenure at the hotel. It was in downtown Sunnydale, after all, home of the Hellmouth. And she well knew this, just as she knew that any paying guest who was paler than normal, used sun-blocking drapes on his windows, and only stepped outside of the hotel during the nighttime hours was most probably an Unbreathing American. Like the new permanent tenant in 425, William Bloody. Or "Spike," as he insisted everyone call him. He was definitely the most pleasant vampire she'd yet given shelter, and one of the most charming. 

And in the two weeks since she had given Buffy Summers a key to his room, she had seen some interesting developments that made her think about Spike as the most unique vampire she'd ever known. She may have been watching his relationship with a human woman from the outside, but it was still something new to her. Some nights the pair would come through the lobby just before midnight with arms around each other, smiling and greeting hotel staff that they'd come to know, especially Judy at the front desk. Other nights they'd come in much later, laughing and dancing around each other, throwing mock punches as if continuing fights they'd had outside, usually one leaping on the other as they entered the elevator and kissing as they rode up. And a few nights they were glaring, tense, and silent, as if just waiting to return to the room so they could begin shouting. 

Whatever type of night it was, soon everyone who worked the night shift got to know the enigmatic Mr. Bloody and the beautiful young Ms. Summers. No one could let the couple pass without noticing them: they shone with a passion and life that the usual drab residents of the hotel couldn't match. One felt that whenever either one of these eccentric people stepped into a room things were bound to be more exciting, less dreary, and forever memorable. 

The female members of the staff had gotten a thorough education in dealing with Mr. Bloody. They found him naturally flirtatious, but not in the slobbering, lecherous way of some guests. He was just—"European," one of them would have said, more used to treating women with embarrassing attention, and always verbal, never physical. If one of them returned his flirtations, he could carry on up to a point and then drop it when he sensed that things were becoming more serious than he intended. But the women had learned to never respond in that way if Ms. Summers was around. The young woman's looks of burning jealousy at any woman who treated Mr. Bloody friendlier than usual were to be feared. At least Buffy only gave threatening looks. Any male member of the staff who gave the petite blonde a lingering look would find himself on the receiving end of Mr. Bloody's homicidal glare, a pointing finger, and some kind of really creative threat. "Oi! You ever taste your own liver, mate? Would you like to?" was one that Judy remembered with a smile. Then Buffy would apologize for his behavior and drag him away. 

Judy had gotten onto a first-name basis with Buffy, but she still couldn't bring herself to call Mr. Bloody "Spike." She had too many years of hotel training to allow her to be so intimate with a guest. At most she called him "Senor Sangriento" like the girls in the cleaning staff. But she was friendly enough with both of them. She'd met them a few times in the 2nd floor restaurant, El Boca Del Paradiso, while having the continental breakfast the hotel provided for guests. Buffy seemed bright enough, but she barely held up her end of a conversation, as if she'd paid almost no attention to current events. When Judy referred to the attack on the World Trade Center as "nine-eleven," she saw that at first Buffy had no idea what she meant. Mr. Bloody, however, was full of conversation, as if he'd spent decades with nothing to talk about and was just now discovering how wonderful it was to speak with people about events again. The first time she heard him give a detailed history of Israeli-Palestinian relations, she watched Buffy instead of him and noted how shocked and pleased the young blonde was to see him fill the gaps in her social skills. 

It was also the first time she had heard him use that word, the one he let slip a few times without meaning to: "Slayer." He usually called Buffy by her name, but every once in a while that other word would fall from his lips, as if it were the only way he'd referred to her for years. She most often heard it in the lobby, when they were coming back from a night out, and Mr. Bloody would be saying something like, "Bloody Hell, Slayer, I never said that Chinese one was better than you—just that you could do with some wushu training!" Judy wondered about it enough to ask around. When she spoke to Rosa, one of the night maids, the woman looked at her with wonder. "You mean you don't know?" 

"Know what?" Judy asked. 

"Buffy's the Slayer," Rosa said. 

"Yeah, so I've heard. So what's that?" 

Rosa put a hand on her shoulder, suddenly very serious, and whispered, "La Vampiro Asesina." 

Judy stared at her, suddenly shaken. "La Asesina?!" Rosa nodded, then hurried away. 

This just confused Judy even more. Mr. Bloody was not only carrying on with a human woman, but now appeared to be the consort of the Vampire Slayer. She had never heard of anything like it, even though her family in Guatemala would tell stories about La Vampiro Asesina, about how one would rise in every generation and how these young girls were the sole barrier between the human world and a larger demonic universe. To good Catholics and practitioners of Santeria, there was nothing surprising about this. And now Judy realized that not only was Buffy the Slayer—she was La Asesina Rubia, the Blonde Slayer, the one who had defeated Acathla and Angelus, saving the world. Stories of her adventures were whispered by shamans in the mountains all through Central America. And when she considered it, it only made sense that such a famous and powerful Slayer lived at the Hellmouth. 

This was why she was tongue-tied when she came face-to-face with Buffy that same evening. The pretty blonde bounded into the lobby much earlier than usual and came directly to the front desk. "Hey Judy!" she said. "I was wondering something." 

Judy blinked once. Twice. "Uh, good evening, Buffy. How can I help you?" 

Buffy hooked a thumb toward the poster that stood on an easel by the main desk. It advertised the May Celebration, a Spring formal dance held each year in the hotel's ballroom. "Is that dance open to everyone?" she asked. 

"Uh, usually the residents like to attend, though we have people from all over town at the dance. The music is Big Band and standards, so it doesn't attract a 'Bronze' kind of crowd. The old mayor used to attend each year." 

For some reason, at the mention of the mayor the brightness and happiness that had been within Buffy shut down. "The mayor, huh?" 

"Yes. But Mayor Avery hasn't been interested in coming." 

Buffy nodded, moving off to the elevator already, then caught herself. "Oh! G'night, Judy! Thanks!" 

"Good night, Buffy," Judy responded, finally finding her smile and becoming a little more comfortable with the Slayer being so near. 

Hours later Mr. Bloody and Buffy came down again, arms around each others' shoulders, ready for their nightly excursion. Only now, Judy knew that they could more properly be called 'patrols' of Sunnydale's night streets. And the vampire accompanied her, probably even helped her in her battles with demons and the undead. Incredible. This kind of behavior was nowhere in the stories her native people told of Slayers, but then, maybe there was a purpose in that. Such moral ambiguities were fine for Americans, but the people she grew up with preferred their evil wholly black and their good wholly white. 

As soon as he spotted her, Spike rushed over to the front desk. He didn't look happy. "Are you the one who put this idea of a 'dance' into Buffy's head?" 

Judy stared in surprise. It took her a moment to remember how to speak. "Uh, no! No, I—" 

By this time Buffy had reached them, and put a hand on Spike's shoulder. "Don't let him spook ya," she said through a grin. "He's all bark and no bite." 

"I'll show you a bite," Spike mumbled loudly, turning to look at the Slayer. But the face he turned back to Judy was contrite. "I'm just not too keen on this—" He looked over to the sign— "May Celebration. Inventin' a holiday for no good reason and convincing some bloke he needs to dance for it. Bah!" 

"C'mon, we talked about this," Buffy said, bumping him with her hip so that he was forced to move sideways. "You've been to dances before, lots of 'em." 

"Yeah. In the bad old days," he said. "Not some memories I'm looking to re-live." His face already hardened into a mask of indifference, he swung away from Buffy's touch. His duster swept around him like bat wings as he moved to the lobby's front entrance and then was out into the night once more. 

Buffy sighed heavily. "Don't worry," she said. "I have a week to soften him up. We'll be there." She turned to Judy. "You coming? Got some guy to dance the night away with?" 

Judy shook her head, smiling wistfully, forcing herself to treat Buffy like just another woman with whom she was friendly. "Oh, I had lots of men back in my own country," she said, "but it's harder here. I meet lots of Mexicanos and mestizos, not so many Central Americans. And I don't have to tell you how hard it is to find a good man in Sunnydale, eh?" She ended it with a little laugh, but it was immediately apparent that she had said something wrong. 

Buffy looked at her wide-eyed. "'A good man,'" she echoed, and swallowed a lump in her throat. She was already backing up, heading toward the doors Spike had disappeared through. "Um," she said, motioning over her shoulder. "I— I gotta go. If I don't catch up with him he'll be ahead of me all night. Um g'night." 

"Good night, Buffy," Judy said to her retreating back, watching her dive into the night as well. She couldn't imagine the hardships Buffy must have gone through—the lovelives of Slayers never actually made it into the stories told along the Sierra Madres. And now she'd unthinkingly brought up some painful memory that Buffy didn't need to consider. She felt terrible about it, but didn't know what else to do. They were still very much strangers to each other, and until Buffy was more willing to share Judy was going to keep stepping on toes. 

Things had been so much simpler when she didn't know about Buffy's life as the Slayer. Buffy didn't even think about how strange her excuse sounded—that her man would be "ahead of her." It was obvious that he was helping her to patrol or fight vampires, though for what reason Judy couldn't imagine. If she didn't know the truth about Buffy she would've wondered about her statement and thought her another weird American. But then, Judy had noticed that Sunnydale residents often accepted the flimsiest of excuses if it kept them from looking at the demonic truth of their town. Perhaps Buffy was used to never needing to explain things. 

A week later, in Room 425, things were hectic. Buffy was walking around in just a slip, trying to choose between three different dresses that were hanging on the closet doors. Spike was pacing around nervously dressed in his boxers, combing his hair obsessively, looking for his cummerbund. The tuxedo he'd rented was laying in its separate pieces on the bed like an autopsy. 

Stepping back, imagining herself in each dress, Buffy finally sat on Spike's couch to look all three dresses over at the same time. Her eyes wandered and she looked at Spike's laptop. It was a fixture in the apartment, always on and ready whenever Spike felt like working. She'd tried a few times to look over his shoulder to see what he was writing, but he always closed the computer rather than reveal the least word. He said it was crap and thus embarrassing, just the kind of drivel he had to produce to make money. If it had been something she found the least bit interesting she would have made a point of having him show her his work . . . but she had never been known to read much beyond what was required by her Slayer duties. Oh, and school, of course. 

So the screensaver on the laptop was very familiar to her. Knowing how much down-time he put the computer through, he got the type that could last for hours without attention. It depicted an open field in what she supposed was England, with the sun rising slowly and continuing on its course for twelve hours, the light shifting on the grass and bushes and trees of the forest in the right-hand corner, and glimmering from the surface of the pond in the bottom center of the screen. Things moved within this little bright landscape: wind rustled the grass and leaves; fish and frogs leaped up from the pond; mice and hedgehogs moved in the grass, and sometimes a fox would hunt them; and every few hours a deer would wander out of the forest and drink from the pond. She hadn't understood what he would want with such a peaceful scene, knowing how he liked slam-bang adventure, but then it came to her: it was a scene that took place entirely in sunlight, and though it was quiet it was still a bit of innocent life moving under the sun, something that she took for granted but which he hadn't seen in more than a century. 

And now she was curious about the wallpaper on his desktop. The last time she'd seen it there had just been a flat gray behind the icons because most of his computer's functions were left untouched. He hadn't even been online until Dawn asked him to get a DSL connection so he could help her with her homework. And Buffy suggested that he search around the Internet and find a wallpaper that would suit him. Because, just as she had suggested the artwork that now decorated the room's walls, she wanted to be sure that the walls of his computer were similarly touched. She wanted nothing of Spike's life to exist without her signature on it . . . and didn't want to think about the implications of that fact in the slightest. So she leaned forward and tapped the spacebar, wiping the screensaver. 

The wallpaper on the laptop was the last thing Buffy would have expected. It was a picture of her, Xander, and Willow on the UC Sunnydale campus, taken probably while she was dating Riley. Nevertheless it had more hope, humor, and joy of living than she'd seen in any of those faces in a long time. God, when was the last time she'd smiled like that, just smiled without being tickled by Spike or coming down from one of the numerous orgasms he provided her? 

"Where'd you get this photo?" 

Spike had been looking under the bed. He got up and joined her on the couch. "Oh. Downloaded it from Red's Website. Couldn't find one of you alone, so I took this." He grimaced. "Guess if I learned Photoshop I could crop it down, but just exportin' it to bitmap format to make it work was a chore. Damn Windows." 

Buffy blinked. "Uh, who are you, and what have you done with my Spike?" 

That stopped him cold, wiping the smirk from his face. "YOUR Spike?" 

Oh God, had she said that out loud? And why did he always notice such things? "Uh, I mean Spike. Just Spike. No other Spikes." 

He chuckled. "Don't panic, Buffy. I wasn't trying to get you to admit you have some affection for me. I know it's no use." 

"Hey!" She held his chin and turned his head in her direction. "Where'd that come from? Why are you wanting to start a fight?" 

She saw anger flash through his crystal blue eyes, then shame, then he wouldn't meet her eyes. "Sorry," he muttered, leaving the couch and sitting on the bed. "You're right. The last three weeks have been the best in my life. We haven't fought like we used to. And I don't want to start again." 

Buffy faced him from across the room. "What is it about this dance that has you so nervous?" 

Spike closed his eyes. "It could be because of everything it represents between us. You'll be out in public with me, yeah, but it's in a place you know your friends won't be." He sighed. "But that's not the heart of it. The main thing is . . . Dru." 

"Dru? Dru-SILLA?" Buffy noticeably stiffened. 

Spike's mood improved just as noticeably—Buffy's jealousy always gave him a boost. "This kind of dancing—it's what we used to do, all the time. She could lose herself in the music and appear sane for a bit, so we indulged in it whenever we could. And I was afraid that it'd remind me too much of her, because—well, Buffy, I know what this means to you. The fancy dress, the 'grown-up' music, the brushes with some more important people in town: it's that need in you to be all 'normal' and have a place in the regular world, apart from the shadows." He now looked into her eyes. "I understand that, I really do. Because it was just the same for us. The chance to move among people and laugh with them and soak in their delicious heat that they give like a gift just for showing up? Hell yeah we wanted that! That feeling was what made us go to dances and learn new slang and watch movies for the pop references. It's what makes a vampire whose heart hasn't beaten since the 19th century want to listen to punk rock and dress like a kid and strut: the need to feel vital, to stay connected to the world at large." He sighed and stood up. "I want you to have that, luv, really I do. So I'll put on the monkey suit and we'll go have fun at that dance. But don't blame me if I feel a little . . . hesitant about it all." 

Buffy shook her head. "Ah, Spikey." She also stood and approached him, wrapping an arm around his waist and running her hand over his muscular, carved chest. "What do you think I feel here, when I do this?" 

"Dunno. Cold skin. No heartbeat." 

"Bingo. It's what I feel every time we're together, Spike. It's what you are, and I wouldn't change that. But don't you think it reminds me of something? Or, more specifically, someone?" 

It didn't take Spike a second to think of who. "Angel," he said. 

"Bingo again. Yeah, it's not like I've ever kissed more than two vampires, Spike. So when I touch you, when we kiss, of course there's a part of me that remembers my first time to do that. It's there all the time." Before he could become angry and turn away from her she met his eyes with her own again. "But I set it aside. I'm glad of what I have now, and I'm starting to forget the pain that used to dominate me. I really don't want to think on that stuff. But like I said, it's always with me. So don't blame me if I feel a little . . . hesitant about it all." 

Spike grinned down at her as she echoed his words, and pulled her close so he could kiss her deeply. When they broke apart, he said, "You really are more brilliant than most of us give you credit for." 

"Yeah, well, I see a problem, I slay it. All part of the service." 

"Mmm, I could use some servicing about now." 

"Sounds good," she admitted, "but we're gonna be late. C'mon, c'mon, we haven't even gotten dressed!" She was out of his arms and grabbing the red dress from the choices on the closet door before he could spin around to see her do it. 

When they walked into the ballroom on the second floor, Glenn Miller's music washed over the couple and Spike was rocked decades backward in his mind. He gritted his teeth and his hands curled into fists—he was kept from slipping into gameface only because he'd been prepared for this. For a dizzying moment he was back in 1943 and the woman he loved was still on his arm, but it was a lithe, pale queen of the night with dark brown locks who accompanied him. And here was the important difference: she loved him, too. At least at that moment, far away from her Daddy, she loved him. Her crystal blue eyes met his own and her sharp mouth drifted near his lips, whispering, "They call to us, my rough boy, their blood dances and sings." 

Someone yanked his arm harshly. "Hey! Blondie! Wake up!" 

Buffy's voice didn't immediately dispel the ghosts, though. Drusilla's voice wrapped around him once more like a trail of smoke: "You're mine, Spike—my Spike, and no one else's." He came to himself and looked into Buffy's worried eyes. The least bit of caring she showed him always raised his spirits, and he smiled in relief at her. "Ah, sorry, luv. Fell into a hole in time there for a moment." 

"Well, don't go anywhere! We're supposed to have fun tonight," she said, tugging him onto the dance floor, hips already shaking with the beat. He chuckled at her aggressiveness and swept her around him, causing her skirt to twirl. The band had just started up a swinging Benny Goodman number and the pair of blondes moved to the swinging pace with the same matched, poetic movement others had noticed when they fought. 

For a little over an hour they lost themselves to the dance. In a way it was more intimate and satisfying than when they slept together, because they could each leave who they were and just exist in the moment, together, carried along with the crowd. She was just a woman, not the Slayer, and he was just a man, not a vampire. They bopped and laughed and kissed and swayed and boogied and kissed. And if she showed more stamina and strength than a human woman by how long she kept him on the floor, neither one needed to make it an issue. And if his lack of need to breathe constantly made their frenzied slow-dance kisses a bit longer than she could stand, she didn't remark on it, being enchanted by his talented mouth as always. Finally, Buffy was in need of some refreshments to replace the sweat she lost dancing, so they moved over to one of the tables serving punch. 

Buffy was standing at the table, with Spike behind her, unconsciously hiding her from whomever might approach from behind. They both stiffened when a familiar voice growled out, "Jesus Christ. What are you doing here, you undead freak?" 

Spike almost wished he believed in a Creator, because this was exactly the opportunity when prayer was called for. Careful not to turn around, he said, "'S a free country, Harris. Can't a bloke take in a dance or two?" 

"A 'bloke,' maybe," Xander said, his voice heavy with disgust. "But you're just a filthy leech." 

"Xander!" said Anya, pulling on his arm. "Not so loud! You don't want to disturb anyone in the crowd." 

But Xander's unerring instinct to make a bad situation worse led him to grab Spike's shoulder. "Why don't you turn around and look at me?" he said. Buffy winced as she felt Spike moved aside and her own lithe form revealed. 

"Bu—Buffy?!" As Xander spluttered, staring and choking, Buffy turned around and finally greeted them. To her surprise, Xander was in a tuxedo as well, and Anya was in a blue-and-white gown that accented her figure lovingly. Of all the days for the wacky couple to act like grown-ups! 

"Hi, Xan!" she said with a big grin, hoping to blind the young man to her proximity to Spike. Knowing just what she wanted, Spike took a step away from her, his countenance already turning dark and broody. "Um, whatcha doing here?" she continued. 

"Oh, it's a wonderful thing," Anya gushed. "The caterers who do this dance gave us an invitation, using it to show off just what they're capable of, and I'm going to load up on this free food while I have a chance! We're auditioning them for the wedding, y'know, and they've invited several prospective couples for a free sampling. Is that why you and Spike are here together?" 

"Together?" squeaked Xander. 

"Together?" Buffy also chirped. "Uh, no, no, there's no together here. We just bumped into each other here at the punch bowl. That's all." 

"So you're not his . . . date?" Xander said, a tiny spark of hope in his eyes. 

Spike was turned from them and leaning forward on the table, the cuffs of his tuxedo jacket pulled up almost to his elbows, his hands curled into fists, knuckles pressed into the cool linen surface. "Don't be fucking ridiculous," he said, his voice drifting over his shoulder. "Why would she possibly want to spend even a moment in my presence? What do I have to offer anyone, after all? I'm just a brainless, chipped relic of what used to be a monster, right?" The bitterness dripping from each word struck Buffy like barbed wire, but she didn't feel that she could say anything. This was not the time or place to reveal the truth, and Xander was definitely not in the right frame of mind to receive a bombshell like this. She only hoped that her friend would drop this immediately. 

Xander sighed heavily in relief. "You're right about that!" he said cheerfully. "No one in her right mind would want to hang around a killer like you." 

Buffy knew something would happen as soon as she heard that, and sure enough, Spike spun around, looking furiously at the man he so despised. "A killer?" he growled, his voice causing dancing couples a few feet away to look sharply in their direction. "Oh, you mean the sort of bloody bastard who summons a demon to make the whole city dance and sing, and ends up killing three innocent people? Eh?" 

Buffy put a hand on Spike's arm, only to have it shaken off. "Hey, let's all calm down," she said. 

Xander's face had gone closed and brutish. "That was an accident and you know it," he said. "I didn't mean for anybody to get killed. But you went out and murdered people!" 

"Ah, bollocks!" Spike shouted. "The bloody Watcher killed more people last year than I did!" He looked from Xander's surprised, frightened face to Buffy's surprised, confused face. "Ah, the hell with this—sod off, the lot of you!" He shoved Xander aside and made his way straight to the ballroom's exit. 

"G-Giles?!" Buffy finally managed to say. "Was he talking about Giles? That's impossible!" 

"Oh, no, quite possible," Anya said cheerily, fixing a plate of hors d'oeuvres for herself. "It was right before you died. You'd beaten Glory into being Ben, and Giles took that chance to suffocate Ben on the ground. Quite the wise maneuver!" 

Buffy suddenly looked very lost. "He suff—Ben? Wha?!" 

"She's right," Xander said. "It happened right before you died, and when you came back . . . well, there was never a great reason to tell you. Glory was gone and that was that." 

Xander shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at his shoes, while Buffy stared in shocked silence at this news. The silence grew between them until finally, Anya poked Buffy in the shoulder. "Hey, try one of these crab puffs," she said. "They're divine!" 

************************************** 

The music from the ballroom could be heard in the main lobby, and as Judy returned to the main desk from the bathroom she couldn't help but do a few dance steps and twirl once or twice. Lissa was managing the desk and she didn't have to hurry back, after all. She was gliding sideways when she saw a familiar blond head surmounting a familiar pair of black-clad shoulders in one of the lobby's chairs. Strange: Mr. Bloody never stopped for long in the lobby. She stepped up to him to see what he was doing. 

Spike was bent over and writing on a hotel notepad with a hotel pen. He felt the human standing beside him but didn't look up until he finished the last line. Then he leaned back and waved the pad at her. "Buenas noches," he said. "Care to read it?" 

Judy took the pad and was surprised to see that he'd written a poem. 

POSSESSION 

She keeps my heart in her back pocket,   
crumpled, folded—transparent as waxpaper;   
she loses it with her change of clothes.   
When I least expect her to have it,   
she pulls it out, opens it onto a table   
and writes her name on it again.   
It's an IOU she can forget,   
a promise not hooked to her soul   
or chained to any important part.   
She holds it over a flame to test me,   
watching closely as I writhe,   
making sure my pain is as real as her power. 

"Wow," Judy said. "You really are a writer." 

Spike smirked and sat back in his chair. "When I was . . . younger, no one wrote free verse. Was considered blasphemy. I might've gotten some recognition if I didn't have to stay in those rhyming forms." 

Judy looked over it again, grateful that he hadn't used any complicated English words; reading English prose was hard enough, but the poetry could be incomprehensible at times. "I really do like this," she said, taking a seat as she handed the pad back to him. 

Spike tried to hide how pleased he was to hear this and assumed his usual uncaring attitude. He shrugged and said, "Eh, I'm no Miguel Ángel Asturias, but I get by." 

Judy's eyes flew open wide and her entire countenance brightened. "You know who Asturias is?!" 

He leaned forward. "Keep it under your hat, pet, but I've met the man." 

"No!" 

"Yeah, first time I was in Guatemala, in the 60's. Was before the Nobel Prize, but he was really loved in his own country before that, so I was just another adoring fan. Still, I bought him dinner and talked with him about writing for a bit." 

"Really?" Judy was now leaning forward intently. 

"Oh, it was fantastic. Never got to talk to him like I'd like—my lady at the time dragged me away." He shook his head, clearly reliving the disappointment of that night. Then his whole body seemed to slip into a deeper gear of depression. "Always been at the mercy of those women I love. An old man who can't learn his lesson." He sighed and took to staring at the pad in his lap. 

She looked at how his body telegraphed his mood from head to toe, and couldn't help but roll her eyes. Further proof that he really was a writer: melodrama. She thought that she might just leave him to his moodiness, but there was a point about which she was curious. "How did you know I was from Guatemala?" 

Spike lifted his head. "Eh?" 

"You talked about Asturias like you knew I'd be interested. How'd you know?" 

He shrugged. "It's not too hard to tell a ladino at first sight, not when you've been around the world a time or two," he said. "And your English is good, but it's not flawless, pet." 

She smiled. "I guess you'd know, you've been speaking it for—" Too late, she brought her hand up to her mouth, staring at the pale Anglo. 

Spike raised an eyebrow, but made no threatening move. In fact, he smirked. "You noticed, eh? Look a bit young to have been buying dinners in the early 60s, don't I?" She nodded her head. "And you Central Americans are a damn sight more ready to believe in the undead than these damn fool Americans. You always took more precautions against the likes of me—had to respect that." He tapped the notepad on his knee a few times. "So, what else do you know?" 

How could she respond to that? What to reveal, what to hide? "Uh, I know about the Hellmouth." 

Now it was Spike's turn to look surprised. "Mmm, you do keep up with the local weather, don't you? Yeah, pegged you as a smart girl from my first day here. And you're not afraid of what I could do to you?" 

"Well, uh . . . to be honest, you work within the hotel's policy. So I have no problems with what you may or may not do." 

"Policy?" Spike asked. 

"You don't attack residents of the hotel," she said. "And you . . . well, there's what we call the 'discrete factor.' You don't step into pools of sunlight and let your hands catch fire. And you don't stand in front of mirrors, just waiting for a reaction from people. As long as you're discrete, the hotel's policy is that we have no problem with you." 

"How civilized," said Buffy, frowning down at them both. 

Spike sighed. The Slayer must've been in full stealth mode if she was able to sneak up on him—thus she was purposefully trying to catch him doing or saying something wrong. So she hadn't found him to apologize; she must've been expecting an explanation from him. And if the reason for his stepping away wasn't clear already, then no amount of explaining was going to suffice. In lifting his eyes, he noticed the glint of fear in Judy's gaze as she stared up at the Slayer, looking as if she'd been caught with her hand in someone else's changepurse. _Ah-ha_, he thought: _one more bit of Sunnydale Confidential is open to the hotel clerk_. 

"Darling," Spike said, knowing just how she hated for him to use terms of endearment in front of others. "You've arrived just in time to spoil a good conversation. Care to sit?" 

"I think I'll stand," she said through clenched teeth. "Are you actually sitting here telling Judy that you're a vampire?" 

Judy hopped up from her seat, not meeting Buffy's eyes. "No!" she squeaked. "I— I mean, I already knew. He wasn't telling me anything." 

The heat in Buffy's gaze dimmed a bit. 

Judy's eyes were shifting rapidly between Spike and Buffy. "Um, I think I'll just be getting back to the front desk." She pasted a fake smile to her face and shuffled past the Slayer, doing her best not to break into a run. 

Spike sneered as he tore the front page from the pad in his hands and crumpled it. "Bravo. You scared the little girl. But I don't scare so easy, pet." 

"I'm not trying to scare you," Buffy replied. "I'm trying to understand what's going on. Is it Xander? He's not going to change, Spike. And his attitude isn't my fault." 

Spike looked up sharply. "Isn't it? If I was your acknowledged boyfriend do you think he'd talk to me like that? If he knew that hurting me was the same as hurting you?" As soon as he said this, his eyes widened and he barked out laughter. "But that's not true, is it? He could spit on me and it'd be nothing to you, just like I'm nothing—" Something caught in Spike's throat and he couldn't speak anymore. He just stared at the floor blinking rapidly. 

Buffy took a seat beside him. "Is this about what you said earlier? About the dance and Drusilla?" 

Spike leaned back and shut his eyes. "Ah, don't remind me of her, Buffy." 

Buffy felt a sting from that remark. "Why?" she hissed. 

Spike sighed deeply. He turned and looked directly into her eyes. "You damn well know why. Because when I think on her I remember someone who LOVED me! Who wanted to be around me, who smiled and laughed when I entered a room, who didn't shrink away from my hand or act ashamed of me in front of others. THAT is what comes to mind when I think on Dru, luv, and it doesn't do much for my happy state of mind." 

Now it was Buffy's turn to look at the floor intently. "So I'm mis-treating you?" 

He looked over to her and ran his fingers through her hair. She looked up to him, looking for blame and anger in his cerulean blue eyes but seeing only pain. "If you're mis-treating me, luv, it's the kind of torture I could do with the rest of my life. But . . . I've seen plenty of passion in your eyes, Buffy, but not much affection. Do you think I deserve that, at the very least?" 

"Are you giving me an ultimatum?" she asked. 

Spike chuckled and shook his head. "Determined to have a knock-down drag-out, aren't you? No, I'm not demanding anything." He stretched his arms out and yawned exaggeratedly. "I'm too tired for it." He stood, and pulled Buffy up with him. Looking into her eyes, he caressed her cheek. "You might wanna sleep at home with the Niblet, sweet. Think I'll drink myself into a hole tonight." 

Spike was gratified by the worried look in Buffy's eyes. "Why do you need to drink?" she asked. 

"It's the only way I'll sleep tonight, what with the memories that dance brought up in me." He cocked his head to the side and let his lips form their comfortable smirk. "Unless you'd care to argue me out of it? Have us both go tell Xander a little something about us?" 

Buffy simply stared back at him, fear and hesitation glistening in her eyes. It was as clear an answer as Spike could expect, he thought, so he turned around. 

"I told Dawn about us!" came out of Buffy, causing him to stop. He turned back to her with annoyance. 

"What, the Niblet? Throwing her at me?" He stepped toward her, a finger raised in accusation. "That little confession was appreciated, Slayer, but it was also LONG OVERDUE. You've been sharing my bed for half a year and you still want to keep the whole thing tight within the family circle?" Spike's voice raised as he became angrier. "Goddammit, if I didn't love you so much I'd have spilled this whole thing long ago. For your sake as well as mine!" Fists raised, he took another step closer to her, seeing the spark alight in her eyes . . . and stopped himself. 

Spike opened his hands and dropped them to his side. "No," he said. "I'm tired. And neither of us needs more pain tonight. Rest well, Buffy." He turned away from her once more and saw that his outburst had drawn Judy out from behind her desk. He nodded at her, demonstrating that his anger was over. 

He took only three steps from her before Buffy grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and kissed him desperately. He responded eagerly, as always, appreciating the feel and living power of her in his arms. But he also knew full well what she was doing. It was a kiss of obliteration, where she no longer wanted to think, no longer wanted to consider what was right or wrong as long as her loyal vampire was around to make her feel good. If she wanted to take him upstairs and have him treat her to a few hours of naked fun he'd do it, no matter how torn up he was inside. Each attempt he made to assert himself only wrapped him tighter in her web. Her kiss was passionate, warm, wonderful . . . and in the end it only made him sadder. 

And it was there, standing in the lobby, wrapped around each other and kissing with their usual intensity, that they were disturbed by Xander for the second time in an hour. His disturbance was, specifically, a scream. 

Buffy and Spike broke apart in surprise and were met by the man's shocked, gaping expression as he witnessed their little scene of unspoken affection. Buffy pulled a bit away from Spike, but he didn't pull back at all, so that his right arm was still draped over her shoulder. And he could feel her heart racing, could hear the sudden increase in her breathing, her sweat. He'd seen her face at least six vampires by herself and not show half as much fear. As for himself, he was still tingling from her kiss and a bit exhilarated at the turn of events. He'd waited for this moment for months, and now that it was here life suddenly became razor sharp, a disrupted balancing act that would change everything according to which way they fell. It was the feeling he used to get only in combat, but could now find when leading characters through a plot. He couldn't wait to see how this would play out. 

"Buffy! You— You and HIM?!" Xander was wide-eyed and slack-jawed, pointing from the Slayer to the vampire and back. 

Buffy stepped away from Spike, hiding any fear or hesitation from everyone. "Oh, grow up, Xander!" she snarled, and then stormed out the lobby's front doors. 

It was the very last thing Spike expected. He turned to the still-swinging door, looking stupidly at her exit. "She— She ran away," he said aloud, his disbelief clear in his voice. She hadn't stayed to defend or support him at all. 

Left with only one target, and a familiar dumping ground for abuse at that, Xander turned on Spike. "You!" he shouted. "What'd you do to her? Put her in some thrall like the Dark Mas— I mean, like Dracula? Hello! Hey, dead breath, I'm talking to you!" 

Spike finally allowed himself to notice Xander's rant. He shook his head in weariness, looking at the floor between his feet. "Thrall only works on the feeble-minded, boy. Now why don't you run off while the grown-ups turn to drink, eh?" 

"God, I oughtta stake you!" Xander cursed. "You should be erased from our lives!" 

The vampire stepped to the seats astoundingly quick, one hand snaking out to pull a chair up by its back. He swung the chair over his head and brought it down hard on the marble floor, shattering the framework and pulling one leg free from it. Now with a jagged shank of wood in his hands, he stepped toward Xander and brought the man's hand up to the stake. And placed the pointy end on his chest. 

"Do it," Spike said, his powerful eyes locked on Xander's own. "Go ahead, boy. You talk a fair game, but I want to see you do it. Look me in the eyes, remembering how I fought next to you last summer, how I saved your pudgy self more than once then, and 'erase' me." Spike put his hands up, so that Xander alone supported the stake at his chest. "I'm right here and I'm not stopping you. Hell, I'm bloody well asking for it! But I'm not some nameless, faceless creature you're staking. It's me, Spike. You've known me since high school. 'Course I was your enemy, but I was still a part of your life. And now you're going to remove that, right? Take it out and pretend it never existed? Well, do it. I'm tired of waiting on you, Harris." 

The two stared at each other through a full minute of tense silence before Xander dropped the stake. It clattered to the floor, and Anya let out the breath that she was holding, but neither Spike nor Xander moved at all. Spike didn't smirk as he said, "It'd be almost like killing Jessie all over again, wouldn't it? I knew you couldn't do it. It's never a fun thing killing someone you know well, even if it's for the best of reasons. I know that only too well, and Buffy's known it for years." Spike stepped back, just watching the confusion in Xander's eyes. "It's okay to hate me, boy, but don't make threats about staking that you're not man enough to carry out." He turned and looked into Anya's peeved expression. "Heh. Now the Demon Girl here, she could teach you some things about being a man, Harris." 

Judy had been standing and watching the drama in the lobby like a statue, passion and anger swirling around her. Spike stopped next to her and looked over to the chair he'd broken. "Guess I sorta broke the 'discrete' rule, didn't I?" he asked her. 

Wide-eyed, Judy only nodded. 

Spike shrugged. "Well, everybody has a bad night. Won't happen again, I swear. And—" He brought forth a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. "I'll pay for the new chair. So, can you have Room Service send up a bottle of Glenfidditch to my room? I'll be needing it." He took two steps from her then stopped. "No," he said aloud, and whirled around. He pressed another hundred-dollar bill into Judy's hands. "Make that four bottles. I'm in a bit of a mood." Without another word, Spike stalked to his room. 

************************* 

Willow repeated one phrase to herself over and over: _It's not an addiction. It's not an addiction. It's not an addiction_. But she was a smart girl and always had been. She knew that her friends loved her and gave her the benefit of the doubt; thus, it was easy for her to fool them. And if she was going out of her way to fool them, if she was hiding her secret pleasure in plain sight so that Tara was the only one who even suspected what she was getting up to, then . . . then some part of her knew that it was wrong. And some part of her knew that it actually was an addiction. 

At least it wasn't magic! She'd gone too far with that last time, caused Tara to leave her for months and endangered Dawn. It had required her to hit bottom, but she'd finally learned her lesson. She was back to being Good Willow, good old hacker Willow, a productive member of the team who broke into high security systems when necessary. So there was a bit of her that was still criminal, still dangerous, as far from being the boring high school Willow as she could, and she soothed herself with that knowledge. 

And then there was her dirty little secret. Oh, it was so very easy to hide it from Buffy and Dawn and Xander, and even Anya: they had no idea what they were seeing. They weren't readers! Oh, sure, they could read, and sometimes picked up a book that wasn't required for school or didn't involve research. But they had no idea what it was like to live on Willow's level of reading, to be reading John Stuart Mill, John Maynard Keynes, Langston Hughes, Dumas (in the original French), Jonathon Spence, Elizabeth Gaskell, and Stephen Jay Gould at the same time, while maintaining three different novels on the side "for fun." She doubted that Buffy had ever encountered a Norton Anthology, or could tell her what MLA or APA style were. 

But Tara knew. And Tara had more than once spied the books that Willow quickly stuffed into her bag, and when she moved back into Willow's room in Buffy's house she found two of the books Willow had tried to hide in boxes in the closet. It was just two, nothing suspicious. But the way Willow had snatched them away from her girlfriend was definitely worth noting. It wasn't the titles so much as the genre she was reading: Sci-Fi/Horror. 

There was no reason for it all, no reason other than that she felt a burning need to reach out, to find some other corner of the world that dealt with the same things she did. She was dampening her powers to keep everything calm in Buffy's house and calm in her bed with Tara, but the hunger that had first led to her abuse of magic was still there. Her mind needed some foothold that wasn't stuck in the Hellmouth, some way of understanding her world that wasn't the standard view of Xander and those others around her. She thought of corresponding with Angel at first, or at least Cordelia, but decided that either one might tell Buffy what she was saying about life in the Summers household. She'd even had the crazy idea of talking to Spike! But in the end, like usual, she could trust no one so much as herself, and was dealing with it the only way she knew: by latching onto the idea of it and absorbing it entirely. 

She had started with Stephen King, because it was expected and "safe" compared to her usual fare. No one noticed that her reading had suddenly taken a sharp turn to the Horror field—because Giles had been the only one who was a reader of her caliber. Giles would have seen immediately that she'd gone from reading Barbara Kingsolver and Margaret Atwood to something decidedly darker. But Giles wasn't there. Clive Barker was an even darker avenue for her to explore . . . at least for a while. His early work was full of gore and interesting twists, but the later stuff was, well, pathetic. Besides, none of this was fulfilling the need she felt in reaching out for horror literature. 

With a feeling like she was stepping off a cliff, she picked up Anne Rice's _Interview with the Vampire_. It didn't affect her nearly as much as _The Vampire Lestat_. When she read of The Talamasca in _Queen of the Damned_ she got the first hint of what she'd been looking for. Not just a world of darkness, but the mortals who worked within that world, who fought against it while being nestled within its cold embrace. Unfortunately, the rest of the Vampire Chronicles weren't nearly as focused, and it seemed at one point that Rice had discovered Jesus. At the first hint of that, Willow quickly departed. 

The vampire genre was so large that she went down several entertaining alleys before finding that they were dead ends. Nancy A. Collins and the White Wolf books on _Vampire: The Masquerade_ were mildly diverting, but couldn't hold her interest. Chelsea Quinn Yarbro's books on the Comte de Saint-Germaine were nice up through _Hotel Transylvania_, but just not right. She leaped to something more modern with Mick Farren's _The Time of Feasting_ and _Darklost_, but again the books were too focused on making the vampires the heroes. She tried to go to a mid-point between these series of books and found something more hip and gynocentric: Poppy Z. Brite. Through _Lost Souls_ and _Drawing Blood_ she delved into vampire erotica at a level she'd never seen before—a place Rice seemed to have reached for but never attained—and was intrigued at the moralism of her tales and the warning it gave to mortals against looking into the abyss and having the abyss look back. Again, it wasn't quite right, but she read Brite up through her book _Wormwood_, at which point she dropped out. Who could possibly be interested in vampires living and loving all over the bayous and other landscape of the South? Wasn't California the center of the world? 

Finally, she stumbled across a Tanya Huff book in an old paperback exchange. With _Blood Price_, she was on the trail of a whole series wherein mortals worked with vampires to stop the vampire menace: in other words, it was exactly what she'd been looking for. Asking around on the Internet—now that she better understood her own desires on the subject—brought her more examples. Some were single-shots, like Richard Matheson's classic _I Am Legend_ or John Steakley's _Vampire$_, or Charlaine Harris's _Dead Until Dark_, but she was looking for another series that would possess her and lead her into an alternative world of demons and night battles. 

She found it in Laurell K. Hamilton. Following the adventures of Anita Blake, she was held captive by how closely this woman's adventures followed her own life, how the world of Slayers and Hellmouths seemed to be touched on in these books. The werewolf parts made her nostalgic for Oz, for the things she'd never gotten to try with him because she'd been so young—now two years older, she felt supremely confident in her ability to deal with his wild side. She craved each one, and then, after only eleven volumes, they were all done. She switched to Anton Spence, and his ghostbusting houngan was okay, but she felt like she was overdosing on New Orleans, and there weren't enough vampires involved. On advice from someone in a chatroom she tried Amelia Atwater-Rhodes, and while _In the Forests of the Night_ reminded Willow of her days in Sunnydale High and the danger that invaded her safe world there, it wasn't until _Demon in My View_ and _Shattered Mirror_ that she found these literary meals truly satisfying. 

And on this night Willow was on the hunt again, searching for some battle-against-the-forces-of-evil book to feed her ever-gnawing addiction. Even better would be the start of a new series—she almost salivated at the thought. The clerks at the local Books-A-Million rolled their eyes as she approached the Information Desk, hoping there'd be something special they could recommend: they knew her well. Willow didn't mind the smirks and comments, though. She spent tons of money here, certainly more than these jerks made at their crummy jobs. The cash kept flowing from dear old Mom; as long as she was a psychiatrist she'd keep her daughter in style, and with entire generations reeling from the Boomers' lack of parenting skills, that wasn't going to end soon. Thus Willow always had tuition and textbook money, rent money for Buffy, and the cash to buy a closet full of books in just a few months. 

The clerks indeed had a book suggestion, and pointed to the Sci-Fi/Horror shelves with a single name: "Bloody." Willow squealed happily and hopped just a bit as she clapped in delight. 

And there they were, a row of six identical editions of _Becky the Vampire Slayer. Book One: Welcome to the Hellpit_ by William T. Bloody. Willow knew there was bad wrongness about this the second she picked it up. A Slayer? A blonde Slayer? On the "Hellpit?" The picture on the cover wasn't Buffy, but it could have been a cousin of hers. And the small picture of the petite blonde kicking vampire ass in a cemetery could have been a photo for how much it seemed like scenes she'd watched for years. Where the hell had this come from? She opened it up near the beginning to read a passage and see just what it contained. 

_ "Look," Becky said. "That guy down there's a vampire."_   
_ Jeeves looked over The Forge's balcony and tried to pinpoint the undead individual. She was pointing to a man with outdated hair, a suit that was cut so that it exposed his hairy chest, and at least three gold medallions hanging amid that chest hair. "And how did you ascertain this?"_   
_ "I heard him," she answered. "He just asked that girl what her sign was. Definitely a guy who learned to date back when disco balls were all the rage, but he looks too young. Plus, those medallions are just way too much. So I'm guessing he's a vamp."_   
_ "Yes, well, that's as may be," Jeeves responded. "But you didn't use your Slayer senses to detect him. You didn't hone in on your prey."_   
_ "'Prey.' Jeez, you make it sound like I'm on safari." Becky rolled her eyes at her Watcher, but instantly turned back to make sure she never lost sight of the vampire. She could banter with Jeeves all she liked, but she did in fact take her job seriously now that she was committing to it. The young lady the vamp had been talking to was now getting off her stool and he was escorting her to the door: definitely his cue to make a robbery from the blood bank on two legs. But there was suddenly one big problem when Becky found the potential victim familiar!_   
_ "Oh no! That's Rowan!"_   
_ "Ms. Cohen?" Jeeves said, having met her in the library earlier that day. "I wouldn't think we'd find her in a place like this."_   
_ "It's my fault," Becky moaned, already moving fast to make it to the exit before the vampire. "I told her to carpe diem. I never told her to carpe noctorum!"_

Willow's mouth went dry as she tried to comprehend what was going on. Was this some new plot by their enemies to embarrass them all? Was it some secret trick the Nerdy Trio had left behind? Had they all been cast into some alternate reality without their knowing it, where they were just fictional characters on a page? Maybe she was overreacting. She needed to read more to understand this. She remembered the events from the scene she'd just read, since it was the first time Buffy had saved her life, and it seemed that she was the model for this girl Rowan. She flipped ahead a short space, scanning pages for that name Rowan to appear again. 

_ The robot body was far bigger than it needed to be, the kind of thing only a demon would design. Its shoulders brushed the ceiling and its stooped, horned head glared with the knowledge of and love for evil. Twin red LED eyes glowed from curving black sockets, their predatory intent clear. "Do you approve of this body, my lovely Rowan?"_   
_ Rowan backed against the wall, horrified with what she was seeing. "You're a monster," she said. "You're nothing like my Malcolm."_   
_ "Wrong," the growling machine answered. "I am everything that Malcolm is." He motioned for Hugh, the boy who'd nabbed her, to come near, and the high schooler gladly approached his master and looked up in awe and admiration. "My higher functions still exist on the Internet, with all those resources open to me. But I also exist here. It gives me the pleasures I am not allowed online—the joy of touching the real world; the joy of affecting things with my own hands; the joy of killing." Reaching out, he took Hugh's head in his clawed metallic hands and gave it a sharp twist, snapping the boy's neck and dropping the body._   
_ Rowan's mouth dropped open and she fell back again, now boneless and nearly fainting. She was beyond words, beyond feeling, beyond understanding. She had given her young virgin heart to this personality on the Net, this imagined man who not only understood her but seemed to genuinely care, seemed more interested in her than any boy ever had in her lifetime. In such a short time he had become central to everything in her life. Food tasted better, the days were brighter, every song on the radio was happy—all because she was in love. So much positive energy expended, so many daydreams crafted and spun again and again about her future with him, so much of her soul spent praying for him and what they could have together. And now to find that he'd been a demon all along! Even the discovery that demons and vampires were real wasn't as hurtful as this betrayal of her innocence._   
_ Moloch couldn't read her mind, but his words made it seem that way. "I have not killed anyone in centuries." His blood-stained hands were outstretched toward the young girl and his happiness vibrated through his electronic voice. "I could not have had this without you, Rowan. Your love brought me here, inspired me to create a body rather than destroy world economies. And now another soul lies within my purview, all because of you." The entire room shook as his heavy form moved forward, and the edge of a claw stroked her cheek. "Thank you."_

Willow almost dropped the book in shock. Whoever had done this had gotten into her head somehow and knew things she had never told anyone, things she had never even admitted to Xander or Tara. Whoever had done this was displaying her darkest secrets to the world—a straight-on magical attack would have been more welcome. Burning down her home would have been more welcome! She felt violated and nauseous, and only now thought to check the back cover. The splashed message that a sequel was due out by the end of the year was not welcoming. She then looked to the inside back cover to see the picture of this "Bloody" person . . . and was so shocked that she leaned against the bookshelf, causing the entire thing to lean over with her weight. She recovered and continued to stare at the handsome, smiling face within the book. 

Spike?! She knew he was evil down to his core, but THIS?! It was the most horrific thing she could think of. It made the Buffybot look like an unhumorous practical joke. The viciousness, the heartlessness it took to betray them all like this—she had truly thought him a bit better than this. 

She had to get this to Buffy! Immediately! And then it'd be time to sharpen stakes once again.   


TO BE CONTINUED 

A/N: I know it was a helluva long wait for this chapter . . . some thought I'd never finish at all. But I really do have a plan here, and it took so long to execute because I wanted to do it right or not do it at all. There should be only three more chapters to this story.   
Chapter Five: Voices   
Chapter Six: The Summer of Bluntness   
Chapter Seven: Room 425   
I have parts of the next two chapters written, I just have to pull it all together to make them work. I make no promises about when they'll appear. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and will enjoy the succeeding ones as well. 


End file.
